


Bal-Chatri

by Kryptaria



Series: The Gauntlet [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Dom!Q, F/M, Light BDSM, M/M, Plot-heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rising through the ranks at MI6 is enough to erode anyone's ability to trust. The agents of the Double O program all take paranoia one step further, elevating it to an art form. But everyone needs one person to trust -- even James Bond. Now, Q just has to figure out how to convince him of that.</p><p><b>Bal-Chatri:</b> A versatile trap used to humanely catch all types of birds, including birds of prey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is another fic that got out hand and could never have happened without a very special group. Thanks in alphabetical order to Bootsnblossoms, Cousincecily, Mitaya, and Snogandagrope for trading off shifts to sit with me through every word. Thanks to Pati79's last-minute eyes before posting. And thanks to Honeybee221b for joining the crew with some fantastic observations on characterization and consistency. And both fashion advice and title credits go to Jennybel75 -- sheer brilliance!
> 
> For more information on the Bal-Chatri, visit [The Modern Apprentice.](http://www.themodernapprentice.com/traps_and_trapping.htm)

So far, for Q, the only disappointing part of working for MI6 was the technology. Not that it wasn’t absolutely bloody gorgeous in a way that screamed ‘I have no budget’; it just wasn’t quite as advanced as one might hope. He was stuck actually typing on his computer, rather than just thinking at it or operating through a virtual interface.

But otherwise, it was perfect — everything Q had ever dreamed of achieving, all right here at his fingertips. After the promise of a brilliant childhood, an early-admission education, and years of working his way up through the ranks, he had finally achieved this: he was head of his own branch at MI6. And he was actually _making a difference_.

In this specific instance, that difference involved stopping a certain financier from moving untraceable cash into the hands of a terror cell currently training in North Africa. Latest intel showed that particular terror cell had scheduled an op thought to be planned for London within the next three months, but Q wasn’t about to wait anything like that long. He was going to put a stop to this tonight.

The computer tech on the other end of the transactions stream was good, but Q was better. He had to be. He had to be _the best_ if he wanted to keep his place at the top of the food chain, and that meant handling this situation personally, rather than passing it off to one of his underlings. Besides, it was half three in the morning, so he was working on a skeleton staff. He preferred working at this hour anyway — he worked best in isolation.

A fact that a certain field agent seemed content to ignore.

James Bond paced behind Q, his perfectly polished dress shoes painfully loud on the tile floor. His very presence was a distraction, as if he somehow generated a field of static electricity that crackled along Q’s back, raising the hairs at his nape, sending little shocks to dance up and down his spine. Bad enough that Bond was handsome, talented, charismatic, and smart — though he did a fine job concealing his intellect beneath a brusque demeanour. Now, he added _intrusive_ to the list, inflicting his secret-agent alpha-dog presence on Q. In Q’s domain.

Navigating the maze of shell corporations and hedge funds was a difficult enough challenge without said field agent’s constant interruptions. For the past three hours and twenty minutes, Q had played nice. He understood Bond’s frustration; he really did. Bond was a man of action, a loaded gun just waiting for someone to pull the trigger. And this sort of chase, while every bit as relevant as a rooftop pursuit in Budapest or a firefight in Bangladesh, was definitely not Bond’s style.

Right on cue, Bond crossed to the conference table where Q had set up for this operation. He loomed — that was the only word for it: _loomed_ — over Q’s chair, demanding, “Well?”

“Not yet,” Q answered, never looking away from the screens. Good thing, too. The weasel at the far end tried to break down the money into small enough pieces that most software wouldn’t flag the transactions as suspicious. Hastily, Q adjusted his tracking algorithm, knocking two zeroes off his lower threshold just in case. “Ha. Bastard.”

“What?” Bond asked sharply, and actually leaned over far enough that he rocked Q’s chair back, shifting his fingers fractionally on the keyboard.

“Sit down, Bond,” Q said flatly, trying to keep his focus on the screens.

“What’s he doing?” Bond pressed. He let go of the chair and went back to pacing, though he stayed disturbingly close to Q. “No, better yet — where is the bastard? If you can locate him, I can end this.”

“I will.” Q was confident of that: No one could hide from him for long. It would just go that much more smoothly if Bond would go somewhere — anywhere. Canada, perhaps.

Bond growled and paced as Q traced the money through two more servers, one of which had security good enough that Q had to actually work to break in. “Clever, but not enough,” Q muttered.

As if summoned back by the words, Bond was at Q’s side in a heartbeat. “What’s happened?”

Q’s patience snapped. He lifted one hand and pointed at a chair at the far end of the conference table, well away from his keyboards, monitors, computers, cables, and personal space.

“Bond! Sit!” he ordered in a tone no one at MI6 had ever heard.

Bond gave Q a single, startled glance before he retreated to the seat Q indicated at the far end of the table.

Not another word was spoken for two and a half tense, delightfully challenging hours. By the end of it, the pot of coffee had long since run dry, Q’s eyes were gritty and red behind his glasses, and his back ached from how he’d been hunched over his keyboards, but he’d done it.

“Bond.”

Bond rose, looking altogether too perfect for someone who’d been awake at least twenty-four hours, the very opposite of how Q felt. His ice blue eyes were sharp and alert.

“What’ve you got for me?” he asked, his voice a low, calm rumble at odds with his earlier sharpness.

Q arched his spine and pressed his fists against the small of his back. “Your target is here in London, at the Langham.”

Bond’s eyes flashed, and his lips curved up in a feral smirk. “Well done,” he said, and started right for the conference room exit.

“Bond!”

He stopped and turned, looking back at Q, and a sudden spark of electricity seemed to crackle in the air between them.

Q shook his head to clear out the cobwebs. Bond might have been up for twenty-four hours, but Q was approaching forty hours, most spent staring at a screen. “Room five-two-two. I let him think he won. Get him.”

Bond smiled ferally. “With pleasure,” he said, and left.

 

~~~

 

The matter of Bond’s behaviour during the financial case had slipped Q’s mind. Twelve hours of much-needed sleep helped, and Q returned to work at midnight, thinking wistfully of getting his hands on a certain RFID reader that he suspected could be miniaturised, as long as the problem of a power source could be solved. He had a team working on the issue, but he hadn’t risen through the ranks at MI6 just to be an administrator. Quartermaster or not, he was far too hands-on for that. No, the advantage of being Quartermaster was that he could present his own budgetary case, rather than having to dumb it down for a supervisor who didn’t know the difference between SSID and an SSD.

Thank god the old relic was long gone. Q might well have tried to sic one of the Double O's on him if he hadn’t finally given in to age and retired.

He went to his office to put away his coat and rucksack. The MI6 cafeteria was open around the clock, but the food after about nine at night was of strictly questionable origin. Q couldn’t help but suspect the late-night staff of moving old fridge contents onto plates and sticking on whatever label best matched the sauce. Much as it felt like his old school days, he’d taken to packing in provisions.

Idly wondering if he could requisition a refrigerator for his office, he swiped his access card at the door, let it scan his retina, and then went inside —

And nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw a shadowy figure reclining on one of his usually-untouched guest chairs, feet up on the desk.

He threw himself back into the hall, heart pounding, and let the door slam shut, all before telling himself that they were in the middle of MI-bloody-6, and it was unlikely that this was an intruder sent to do him harm. Unfortunately, as Silva had proved, ‘unlikely’ didn’t mean ‘impossible’, and Q knew he should do something — sound some alert, perhaps — but he had no idea what.

He doubted their new director would appreciate him doing something so juvenile as pulling one of the fire alarms, no matter how panicked he felt.

Indecision held him paralysed long enough that the door opened before he’d even taken a single step. Standing in the doorway, perfectly illuminated thanks to the brightly-lit hallway, was James Bond. Naturally.

“Next time, at least have the good sense to run,” Bond observed dryly.

Taking a deep breath, Q shouldered past him and went for the desk, swinging his rucksack into one of the guest chairs — the one, in fact, that Bond had been occupying moments earlier. “Did you need something, then?” he asked as he turned on his desk lamp.

“Another radio,” Bond said, a smirk flashing to life. He went to the chairs, moved Q’s rucksack, and took his former place.

Q watched as one foot then the other hit the desk. He had no idea what brand of dress shoes Bond was wearing, and he didn’t really care. “Feet down,” he said, fixing Bond with a glare. After last night, Bond’s cold facade was no longer quite so intimidating.

Bond sighed and took his feet down, though he remained slouched in the chair. “It’s after midnight. Why stand on formality?”

“Because it’s my office,” Q pointed out. He’d been warned not to let the senior agents disrespect his authority as head of Q Branch. Was it his bloody fault that he looked half his actual age? No. “What did you do with the last radio I gave you?”

“My target needed a closer look at it.”

Q paused in the act of logging into his systems and stared at Bond. Maybe he hadn’t got enough sleep the previous night after all. “What?”

Bond’s brows rose. “I don’t have it anymore,” he finally said. “And even if I did, you wouldn’t want it back.”

“You —” Q cut off as his brain suddenly caught up with Bond’s truly awful tendency towards understatement. “Bond! You aren’t to use your issued field tools to — What was wrong with your gun? Isn’t that what you’d prefer? Shooting people?”

“MI6 is under new management,” Bond pointed out.

With a sigh, Q finished logging onto his computer and opened the requisition database. “There’s no new equipment request.”

“I’m requesting it now.”

“You have to _file_ the request as an addendum to your after-action report.”

Bond shrugged. “I only just got back to the office an hour ago.”

“Were you hurt? Did you have to go to Medical?” Q asked, a hint of worry creeping into his tone. According to M’s new guidelines, all operation reports had to be filed within twelve hours unless the agent involved had a medical waiver.

“I just got back from the op,” Bond clarified.

“You haven’t been home? You haven’t _slept?_ ” Q asked, tallying up the hours that Bond had been awake and in his presence and coming up with a number that was far too high for safety.

In answer, Bond just shrugged. “Work to do.”

Frowning, Q pulled up Bond’s personnel records. Technically, the personnel database was off-limits to Q, but in Q’s world, database security was a suggestion, not a rule. Bond’s listed address was halfway across London.

First things first. “Were you injured?” Q asked, looking Bond over. No visible cuts, wounds, or bruises. His suit was impeccable, though he’d gone so far as to loosen his tie and undo the top button of his shirt.

Bond shrugged again. “Nothing significant. If you can just hand over another radio, I’ll be out of your way.”

“Have plans then, did you?”

“004 checked in this morning at Heathrow. He’s tailing a Colombian who might be of interest.”

“Mmm.” Q nodded and turned his attention back to his computer, unsurprised. All the Double O agents were... well, _motivated_ was one way to describe them. Far more polite than words like ‘obsessive’ or the equally truthful ‘insane’. “You have the Walther?”

“Naturally.”

“I’ll need it back for a moment,” Q said, opening his desk drawer to search for his precision toolkit. He didn’t look up; he knew better than to meet Bond’s eyes while trying to be sneaky.

Suspicion was second-nature to active agents, but Bond raised it to an art form. He grudgingly drew the weapon, asking, “Why?”

“Firmware upgrade for the biometrics,” Q lied.

Bond huffed as he dropped out the magazine, racked the slide to eject the loaded cartridge, and then set it down on the desk. Q couldn’t help but watch his hands, graceful and sure, moving without hesitation despite the faint tremor that fatigue had introduced.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Q said, taking the weapon. “I’m fully qualified on all weapons MI6 issues. Part of the job.”

Bond didn’t so much smile as bare his teeth. “I prefer not to be the one who’s unarmed.”

The words stung. Q couldn’t hide his flinch, though he kept his eyes fixed on the weapon as he began to disassemble the biometric reader. “Of course,” he said, trying for a casual, bland tone. He failed.

For a few long seconds, the only sound was the quiet whisper of Q’s tools.

Then, to Q’s surprise, Bond spoke: “I’m sorry.”

Q looked over at him, but this time, Bond was the one who was avoiding eye-contact. “For what?” Q asked.

“Inability to trust is a hazard of my profession,” Bond said quietly.

“So I’ve learned,” Q said, the sting fading. He couldn’t fault Bond for being overcautious — caution was one of the reasons he was still alive in a profession that was almost universally fatal. Q had once seen the statistics on the Double O programme. The survival rate was positively terrifying — something he didn’t like to consider.

“It’s habit,” Bond explained, sounding uncomfortable.

Q looked up, seeing the stress and fatigue on Bond’s face. He looked older than his years, and Q felt an entirely inappropriate compulsion to protect him, even from himself. Quickly looking down, Q slid the sensor out of the Walther’s biometric controller and set it on his anti-static mat. “You’ll need to come back at noon.”

“For what?”

Q snapped the pieces back in place and tightened down the screws. “So I can reprogram the weapon to your biometrics.” He took hold of the muzzle and offered the grip to Bond.

Ice blue eyes narrowed. Bond took the weapon, gaze fixed to the lights that failed to illuminate. “You’ve disabled it.”

“You’re off-duty for twelve hours.”

“You don’t have the authorisation!”

“Technically, as a branch director, I don’t have the authority to issue you commands,” Q clarified, though he couldn’t help but recall when he _did,_ with startling success. The simple moment was etched in his memory. _Bond! Sit!_

“Nor to disarm me, _Quartermaster,_ ” Bond snapped, rising to his feet. He leaned down on the desk, using his height and bulk to loom again — it was a natural talent with him. The man even used his body language like a weapon.

“But I _do_ have the authority to put you on short-duration leave. So either come back in twelve hours and I’ll reenable your weapon, or you can go to M to override my authority,” Q told him calmly.

Bond had a habit of running roughshod over everyone at MI6. He bullied, he flirted, he lied, and he manipulated, and in the end, he always got his way. Even the previous M, bless her, had trusted that Bond that at least had the best interests of the Commonwealth in mind and often let him slip his lead.

 _No._ Bond wasn’t a hound. He was more like a falcon, a half-trained bird of prey who could be lured to the wrist on his own terms — but who would, one day, fly off and never return.

It was Bond who looked away first. He shoved the Walther back into his holster and spun away from the desk, crossing the room in long, angry strides.

“Bond?” Q called, tipping his head to look past the monitor.

He stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“I know you have other guns. I know you don’t even _need_ a gun. But please,” Q said, “go home and get some sleep.”

Bond stared at him, his face an expressionless mask. Then he turned and left with a nod that was almost imperceptible.

Q sighed and leaned back in his chair, wondering if Bond was going to listen to him.

 

~~~

 

Late the following afternoon, Q rolled a metallic sphere down the length of the firing range, watching its smooth progress on the concrete. When it reached a preprogrammed distance from the point of origin, it unfolded arc-shaped leaves that caught against the floor, stopping its progress.

“Accuracy?” he asked.

His lead robotics technician, Summer, aimed a laser range-finder at the sphere, and then grinned at him. “We’ve crossed the ninety-nine percent threshold.”

“Well done,” Q approved with a grin of his own. “How were you thinking of deploying the weapon?”

“Haven’t worked that out yet, sir.” Summer holstered the range-finder on her work belt. “Gyros, most likely.”

“Minimal moving parts,” he reminded her, turning. “Remember — God!” he gasped, coming face-to-face with James Bond, who was leaning against the wall not two feet away.

Bond was disturbingly good at looking innocent, even when they both knew it was false. “Q.”

“Christ, you need a bell,” Q muttered.

Summer let out a choked laugh. When Q shot a glare at her, she quickly said, “I’ll go get the prototype,” and let herself through the safety barricade and onto the range. Q had booked the range for an hour for their tests, so the other shooting lanes were clear.

Bond’s eyes were practically glittering with ill-concealed humour. “You weren’t in your office. I could almost think you’re avoiding me.”

“Apparently, for my own health,” Q said, looking Bond over. Maybe he’d slept; maybe he hadn’t. He had changed, though, switching out his formal suit for a much more casual shirt that looked too soft for the office.

Bond fell in beside Q, walking with him to the door. “What are you working on?”

“Deployable weapons turrets. Small calibre, short range, but they should be able to cover your escape or provide a distraction.”

“Clever,” Bond approved, following Q down the hall towards Q Branch’s domain. “You’ve had your twelve hours.”

Q glanced at Bond, trying not to openly stare. “Get a good day’s sleep, did you?”

“I’m surprised you weren’t monitoring me,” Bond hinted wryly.

Q looked away, feeling a blush threaten. “I monitor all agents whenever they’re in range and no one’s cut out their transceiver,” he said quickly. It was the truth, technically speaking. His computer actually did the monitoring, and would send relevant messages to the appropriate departments. He’d just added an extra few lines of code to provide him with hourly updates on Bond’s location and health — purely a temporary measure.

“I’m certain,” Bond said, his voice low and rich with amusement.

“You need a caretaker, Bond,” Q said thoughtlessly.

“Not one who’s half my age.”

Q stopped at the bottom of the stairs that led up to his office and looked at Bond steadily. “I’ve seen your file, Bond. You’re barely ten years older than me, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop speaking as though I’m fresh out of primary school.”

Bond drew back, studying Q as if he’d done some surprising new trick, one Bond didn’t quite know how to categorise. Q held Bond’s gaze, feeling a calm sense of certainty wash over him. He knew that no one at MI6 short of M dared to call Bond to task like this, but it was about bloody time _someone_ did.

Bond looked away first, glancing up the stairs. “My apologies,” he murmured. “It won’t happen again.”

Q lifted a hand to touch Bond’s arm before he even realised he’d moved. He caught himself awkwardly, biting back the impulse to praise him, because that was _absolutely_ not business-appropriate. He pulled his hand back and went up the stairs, taking them two at a time as was his habit. Maybe he was just tired. He’d been working mad hours since taking over Q Branch. He couldn’t remember his last proper day off. And his last date had been... Christ, six months ago? Maybe more?

He’d have to do something about that. He couldn’t keep going like this at work — and certainly not with someone as potentially devastating as James Bond.


	2. Chapter 2

At work, Q tended towards a subdued appearance — not suits, given how much time he spent in the lab, but neat trousers and shirts, cardigans against the cold, that sort of thing. His hair was a bit too long to be regulation, but the ‘military’ in ‘military intelligence’ applied more to field operatives than to office personnel. And really, no one noticed his hair when he was showing them the latest in high-tech explosives.

Tonight, though, he could shed the persona he’d so carefully crafted and be himself. It was Friday, and he had a full weekend off — backed by M’s solemn promise that he wouldn’t be called back in for anything short of war or a terrorist attack on home soil. He turned off his work mobile, feeling strangely naked, and went out, looking nothing like himself.

For one thing, no one at Q Branch wore tight black leather trousers, unless one counted the bite-protection suit they had for training guard dogs. The black silk shirt was far too tight even with half the buttons left open, and the black brocade waistcoat hanging open over it did little to conceal the fact that, computer geek or not, he was in fairly decent shape. Even his boots weren’t appropriate for the lab, heavy as they were: too many buckles. His only jewelry was the watch he wore everywhere except in the electronics lab, a sleek black and silver Bertolucci that had been a gift from his parents upon his promotion to Quartermaster.

Instead of his sensible wool overcoat, he put on a long, fitted black coat that buckled up the front and at the cuffs. He took a taxi rather than driving, even though he had no plans to drink tonight. He had no idea where he would end up — his flat or someone else’s. All he cared was that the night didn’t end with him going home alone.

The nightclub he chose wasn’t trendy. It wasn’t featured in any of the social rags or reviewed on Yelp. He’d learned of it three years ago from a former lover who remained a friend, and he rarely bothered going anywhere else. There was no queue, and while the cover charge was steep, it served to keep out anyone who stumbled upon the club by accident.

The club was dark and loud, as was the norm, but with a definite industrial theme. He checked his coat before going in, even though he knew it looked damned good on him. He wanted to be able to move inside, and the coat was a little too swishy to be practical. Not that he should be thinking of practical, he reminded himself somewhat grimly. For the next forty-eight hours, he was going to be just as fucking impractical as was humanly possible, even if it killed him.

Inside, he went right for the stairs leading up to the catwalks over the dance floor. He walked slowly towards the middle, getting a feel for the club and the night’s crowd. Even after six months, it felt comfortable and familiar, though he didn’t immediately recognise anyone, which was just as well; he wasn’t looking for anyone in particular tonight.

He picked a spot at the railing between a pack of girls who looked too young to be here and a couple who were more interested in making out than watching the dancers below. It was too early for the dance floor to be crowded, which gave him a good view, and he immediately marked a few people as potentially interesting.

He hadn’t been at the railing five minutes before someone walked up beside him. He turned, glancing out of the corner of his eye, and saw a woman, late twenties or early thirties, with dyed red hair pulled up in a high, braided ponytail. Leather bustier over a lace shirt, black collar, layered knee-length skirt, fishnets, boots. She flashed him a shy smile and looked down, leaning against the railing.

She stood an inch too close to be disinterested, especially with the catwalk as empty as it was. He straightened and looked her over, taking his time to appreciate the effort she’d put into her outfit. She gave him a few minutes to look before she turned to smile at him again.

“So, what do I call you?” he asked, taking the initiative.

“Gail.” Her voice was as soft and pretty as the rest of her.

He turned, leaning his hip against the railing, and she mirrored the pose. She was just an inch shorter than him, thanks to her chunky heels. “Gail. That’s lovely,” he said, not particularly caring if it was her real name. Probably three-quarters of the people here used names taken from mythology or the classic era of sword-and-sorcery fantasy. No one came here to find a long-term relationship.

“Thank you,” she said, ducking her head modestly. She looked up at him through her lashes and asked, “What should I call you?”

“‘Sir’,” he told her, thinking it best to establish their roles from the beginning. He wasn’t in the mood to spend the night dancing around what he really wanted.

She smiled even more and met his eyes for an instant. Then her gaze dropped again, taking a slow path down to his boots, before she said, “It suits you. Sir.”

 

~~~

 

Q had lucked out when Gail had found him, truth be told. She knew how to dance without hanging on him or stomping on his feet, and when he brought her to the bar, she didn’t try to order anything with alcohol. He hooked a finger in the front ring of her collar and pulled her in for a kiss while waiting for their drinks, and then let her carry them while he found a spot on one of the couches. She sat at his feet and leaned against his thigh, telling him a story about touring with a band during her uni days. He paid minimum attention and played with her hair while keeping one eye on the crowd.

It was just after eleven, and the club was reaching peak capacity. Q shared the couch with two others whose partners were putting on something of a show, lazily making out on an ottoman in the middle of the seating area. By that point, Gail had left his side only twice: once to see a friend, once to go to the ladies’. Both times, she’d made a point to find him within ten minutes, and the more time passed, the more certain he was that she’d be coming home with him.

Thinking it was time to move on with the rest of the evening, Q wrapped her braid around his fist and tugged to get her attention. She met his eyes, and he couldn’t help but lean down for a kiss that ended with a sharp bite on her lower lip. His free hand found her throat, and he traced his fingers over the edge of her collar as he considered where to start their very necessary discussion.

“So, what are you — _Oh, fucking hell,_ ” he said, his voice dropping to a strangled whisper as he glanced across the club and caught sight of all too familiar cold blue eyes. For one moment, he was nearly overcome by the impulse to let go of Gail and run, or possibly hide behind the couch, because it was unthinkable that his work and personal lives should cross like this.

Then common sense reasserted itself, followed by a soul-crushing sense of duty. He’d been promised a weekend off, but now James Bond was here, and that meant that something had gone terribly wrong. Possibly the European Union had collapsed.

“Sir?” Gail asked, sliding her hands up his thighs. Her palms were hot through the tight leather.

“Sorry, love. I am so, so sorry. Something’s come up,” he apologised, taking her hands to help her stand.

Irritation flashed across her expression, and for a moment he thought she was going to make a scene. Then she sighed and gave a wry smile, looking him over much more boldly. “Come back and find me some night,” she invited, and pressed a slow, hot kiss to his mouth. He gave himself the luxury of enjoying the feel of her body against his. When she raised up on her toes to encourage his hands to slide down over her arse, he smiled.

“I will,” he promised, and gave her a slap on the arse, figuring Bond had already seen more than enough to know what was going on here. Instead of protesting, she gasped and ground her hips against his, which did nothing to help the fit of trousers that now felt uncomfortably tight.

Then she was gone, slinking off into the crowd, leaving Q to make his way across the dance floor. Bond was waiting at the far side, looking alien and out of place in a tailored suit, complete with a tie. He was quite possibly the only person wearing a tie in the entire place, except for one girl Q had spotted earlier, though she’d paired her tie with a lace bra instead of a pinstripe blue button-down shirt.

There was no sense in trying to talk in here. Q didn’t stop; he just tipped his head towards the door. At least he’d be able to get a taxi at this hour without much of a wait. Bond followed him to the coat check, where they both handed over tickets. Q tipped for them both out of habit.

The night was cold and unpleasantly damp, the type of London night that never ended in fluffy snow but in a thick, wet rain that was somehow colder than ice. Q buckled his coat closed, wishing for his heavier overcoat, considering that he was probably going to end up shuffled right back to the office. No mobile, no ID badge. His biometrics would get him access everywhere important, but he felt naked all over again — and that was before he recalled that he hadn’t bothered wearing any pants under the leather trousers.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking to the corner. “What’s happened?”

“Apparently, someone’s kidnapped our quartermaster and is holding his wardrobe for ransom,” Bond said wryly, staring at the way Q’s coat flowed around his legs.

“And yet, which of us managed to _not_ blend in back there?”

“Sorry, I don’t own anything appropriate. You’ll have to advise me some time.”

For one moment, Q’s imagination ran with the concept, reminding him of the obsessive way Bond cared for his body. No shirt — it would be a crime to cover his chest and shoulders — but a collar and cuffs for accents. Not leather trousers but denim, something tight and faded in all the right places, maybe ripped just enough to slide a finger under the fabric.

Q shook his head hard, trying to force his mind back onto a professional track. He was suddenly grateful for his ridiculous coat, because he _really_ needed to go back home and change his trousers to something looser. Possibly after a cold shower.

“Has someone gone and blown up headquarters again?” he asked more sharply than he’d intended.

“No.”

“Buckingham Palace?”

Bond gave him a puzzled look and stopped at the corner. “No. I understood you’re off for the weekend.”

“I am,” Q said, frustrated. He tried not to shiver in the cold. “So what’s gone wrong?”

Bond shrugged. “Nothing.”

Q was brilliant. He wasn’t quite as good with people as he was with computers and electronics, but he hadn’t made it to branch director without learning the basics. As far as he could tell, Bond wasn’t lying, but that made even less sense than the thought of some disaster sending Bond to pick up Q. Which made him wonder...

“How did you know where to find me?” he asked sharply, remembering only then that he’d left his mobile at home — his secure, _tracked_ mobile.

With a sidelong glance and a sly smile, Bond said, “Trade secret.”

Q huffed. He knew how _he_ would track someone — London’s CCTV network made tracking people more like cheating than work — but Bond wasn’t exactly a specialist with computers. He could be trusted to use non-lethal devices as intended about sixty percent of the time, but that was it. And Q, at least, had never shown Bond how to crack the CCTV network.

“I’ll give you a ride home,” Bond finally said, though he didn’t turn to start walking.

Finally, Q nodded. “Yes. Fine,” he agreed, thinking at least he’d get the chance to change clothes before going to the office.

They walked in silence down the street to a sleek red Audi sportscar. Bond removed a keyring from his jacket pocket and pressed the fob. The lights flashed and the alarm chirped.

“Very subtle,” Q said, and then stopped, reaching for Bond’s arm. When Bond turned to face him, Q pulled open his overcoat and jacket enough to verify that yes, he was wearing his shoulder holster. “Christ. You came into the club _armed_.”

“Something wrong with that?” Bond asked, suddenly grinning as though he found Q’s behaviour inexplicably adorable.

“Bloody right there is. You’re not meant to carry _my_ gun when you’re not working,” Q scolded, his voice low and calm. Frustrated with the whole situation, he walked away from Bond and got into the passenger side of the low sportscar. The seat was built for slouching — _for fucking,_ Q’s treacherous imagination corrected — and he stretched his legs out, crossed them at the ankles, folded his arms, and wondered if he could quit his job. He could be making ten times his current salary at any of a dozen companies.

But they were boring and tedious cubicle farms with little windowless offices and too many conference rooms. And while some of them were defence contractors, none of them offered the excitement of MI6. The fact that none of them had actually been bombed in the last twelve months, as MI6 had, was actually not a benefit, by Q’s way of thinking. Safety was overrated.

Bond slid silently behind the wheel. The engine roared like a starving lion before settling down into a threatening purr that throbbed through Q’s body. When Bond tapped the accelerator, Q sank back into the leather seat. He closed his eyes and let his head thump back against the headrest, trying not to think about Gail’s curves or Bond’s muscles or the fact that it might well be another six bloody months before he even had the chance at a proper night off.

Bond drove the car like it was an extension of his body, tearing around corners and aggressively overtaking any traffic moving too slow for his liking. Q could only sulk for so long before it became ridiculous, and slowly, he turned his attention to studying Bond’s face, illuminated in gentle sweeps as they drove past streetlights or oncoming traffic.

Relaxed, Bond looked five years younger than he usually did, which is to say he looked his actual age. His eyes were locked to the road, almost glowing with the simple pleasure of handling the sportscar. His gloved hands caressed the wheel and the gearshift, and the sight of his fingers curling and flexing dragged Q’s thoughts right back down to a whole series of inappropriate, positively filthy images.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and turned to look out the window instead.

Finally, Bond pulled the car up to Q’s building — and then past it, before he took a spot by the kerb two buildings down. Q stared at him as he put the car in park and turned off the engine.

“What are you doing?”

“Parking,” Bond said, raising a brow.

Q sighed and pressed his hands against his eyes for a moment. “Fine. Just... wait here. I’ll go change. Are we going somewhere important? To meet the Queen, perhaps?”

“Not unless she’s hiding in your flat,” Bond answered, sounding amused. “Or would you prefer to go back to mine?”

“To go —” Q cut off, unlatching his seatbelt so he could turn and stare at Bond more directly. “You _are_ here on business, aren’t you?”

“Do I need to be? Even I take the occasional night off.”

Q closed his eyes, thinking of Gail, who’d surely found herself someone else by now. “You — I had a _date,_ Bond.”

“She looked more like a pet,” Bond scoffed.

“That is _precisely the point,_ ” Q said, enunciating each word like a gunshot. He took a deep breath and asked, more calmly, “What are you doing following me, 007?” He hoped the title would be an appropriate reminder of the boundaries between work and home life.

“Do I need a reason, _Q?_ ” Bond asked. He twisted in his seat and propped one knee up on the centre console. His eyes burned with intensity as he added, “I haven’t been able to find your real name, you know.”

At least _something_ in his life had gone right. “There’s really no emergency? No one’s dead? England isn’t about to fall into ruin?”

“So far as I’m aware, no, though these things do crop up from time to time.”

“So, you interrupted my night off because... Why? You were bored? Lonely?”

“Why do I need a reason?” Bond asked sharply. “If you ever came out of your cave, you’d realise people do this, you know.”

“I believe any definition of ‘this’ is not one we share,” Q said flatly.

Bond’s eyes narrowed. “While technically true, I think there are opportunities —”

“No.” Q shook his head and twisted around in his seat to push open the car door. He had to fight his coat in order to escape the low car, but finally succeeded. He was too mature to slam the car door, though it was a close call.

He wasn’t surprised to hear Bond following him. He didn’t bother speeding up his steps; he wasn’t about to play cat-and-mouse with a man who survived falling off buildings and drowning in rivers. Instead, he got out the key to his flat and flexed his hands to warm up his fingers as he went up the stairs to the building’s front door.

Bond followed him into the foyer, but Q put out a hand to stop him from opening the inner door. “What are you doing, Bond?” he asked sharply.

Bond’s expression turned guarded. “Q.”

He said it in exactly the same tone that Q had heard before, a voice on the other end of a radio or mobile phone, asking for instructions or information, something to help him complete his assigned mission. In the field, Bond knew he could call on Q for anything he needed, and Q would move heaven and earth itself to provide.

But this wasn’t work — this wasn’t a mission — and Q had no idea what Bond wanted from him, except that it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Q’s now-ruined plans for the night.

“Bond.”

Bond glanced down at Q’s coat, gaze sliding over the silver buckles that held the fabric tight against Q’s chest. “We should at least discuss... this.”

“This?” Q asked blankly.

“Perhaps upstairs?” Bond prompted.

Q had no idea what was going on here, but he at least had an answer for that. “No.”

Bond sighed as though disappointed. “Tonight was the last key I needed, Q. You’re a very puzzling creature. Even I could never have anticipated this.”

“‘This’,” Q repeated.

“You.”

Q was brilliant, but it didn’t take a genius to put this puzzle together. The end result, however, was... well, ‘surprising’ was far too mild a word for it. He thought about Bond’s behaviour over the past week or so, how he’d backed down whenever Q stood up to him, how he had figured out Q’s day off and tracked him to an underground nightclub, one he obviously hadn’t researched, or he would have dressed more appropriately.

Bond had put effort into this. He’d taken a risk.

“No,” Q said quietly, needing to distance himself, because he couldn’t trust his instincts. Not now, with anxiety and disappointment twisting his guts and something that tasted like hope but could be poison on his tongue.

“We should talk about —”

“No, Bond,” Q interrupted more firmly, in _that_ voice, the one that had flowed so naturally through him earlier. “You’re not invited up, because you ruined my night, and I’m too bloody angry to trust myself.”

Bond drew back as though he’d been slapped, and Q suddenly recalled that he was trapped in a tiny foyer with a man who was trained to kill at a moment’s notice. Q’s skin went cold and his heart leaped into his throat, choking his breath.

But Bond didn’t move towards him. He just looked away, out the wavery front glass, to regard the passing cars through an expressionless mask.

Slowly, Q exhaled. “If you want to make it up to me,” he said cautiously, “you can try again tomorrow.”

Bond’s eyes slid back to meet Q’s. “Is that what you want?”

What he wanted? Q bit back a laugh. He had a bloody laundry list of things he wanted, and even a _hint_ of what he thought Bond might be offering — despite knowing this was all probably some colossal misunderstanding — was right at the top of that list. So at least he was being truthful when he nodded.

“Yes, I do,” he said, and was terribly proud of just how steady his voice was.

For one heartbeat, Bond studied his expression. Then he nodded, turned, and left so suddenly that Q shivered in his absence, as if he’d taken all the heat out of the foyer with him.

Q let himself into the lobby, pressed the button for the lift, and sagged against the wall. Christ, this was insane. This wasn’t real. Things like this just didn’t happen to him. Ever.

 

~~~

 

Q spent Saturday in a storm of anxiety. He cleaned the flat twice, going so far as to scrub the perpetually dusty spot behind the toilet and give a cursory brush to the baseboards, which was ridiculous. No matter why Bond was visiting, he wouldn’t be giving the place a forensic examination. But that didn’t stop Q from cleaning. In fact, thinking about Bond’s visit just made Q more anxious.

If Bond was coming over as a co-worker, Q would know precisely how to behave. He’d dress sensibly as though for work. Maybe he’d switch out the wool trousers for dark blue jeans, but that was it. He’d offer coffee or tea, perhaps a glass of wine or scotch if Bond seemed stressed. Q had a secure MoD laptop in the very heavy tamper-proof safe in his bedroom. He’d take it out and link to the MI6 servers to give Bond whatever intelligence he needed.

And if Bond was coming over for a... Well, Q didn’t know precisely the right word, so call it a date instead. If Bond was coming over for a date, Q would dress much more casually, more sensually. For a proper date, he’d definitely serve the wine, probably with takeaway, since he was rubbish at cooking.

He didn’t allow himself the luxury of imagining that Bond might be coming over for a scene. The disappointment would be too much to bear, he decided.

As afternoon progressed towards evening, he recalled that he did have one way to get answers. He gave off cleaning and went to his work mobile instead. He’d left it charging but powered down, determined not to have his weekend interrupted by the temptation to check his messages. Sure enough, there were thirty-nine of them waiting. Most were routine notifications: agents in the field, station chiefs forwarding equipment requests —

_Update: 007 to Station M, Marrakech, Morocco._

Q was accustomed to a pang of anxiety any time one of the senior agents went out in the field. The junior agents met with violence more often, but only because there were more of them. It was the senior agents — the Double O group — who were _expected_ to risk their lives, and Q had never quite learned to accept that uncomfortable truth. Then again, he wasn’t M. He wasn’t meant to cope with life or death decisions. His focus was gear.

With a bitter sense of disappointment, he paged through the rest of his messages until he got to one sent only an hour ago:

_Equipment Acknowledgement: Have new radio. Will return it in one piece. -007_

Q read the brief message twice, a smile tugging at his lips. The message was strictly business, perfectly appropriate, though unnecessary. The Q Branch administrator who’d checked out the replacement radio would have logged the equipment assignment in the database.

He wanted to respond with something, just to show that he understood the real reason for the message — that he accepted Bond’s apology for missing their date-or-whatever — but only M had the authorisation to initiate communication with an agent in the field. Then again, field agents often called in with requests for intelligence or support, which meant that Q might end up talking to Bond at any time.

Figuring he’d made progress, he spent the rest of the day cleaning the flat. Thoughts of Gail made him consider going back to the club, but in the end, he decided to order in takeaway and catch up on the television shows he missed because he worked such long hours. Besides, if Bond called in from the field, Q wanted to be ready to take the call.


	3. Chapter 3

In three weeks, Bond’s tracking signal crossed the length of North Africa and the Mediterranean Sea before it stopped transmitting. Q would have been worried, but three weeks was the longest Bond’s tracker had ever lasted, so he considered it an accomplishment in a way. Unfortunately not everyone saw it in the same light. Q ended up in a prolonged discussion with M, patiently explaining in small, icy words precisely why he wasn’t going to design a transponder meant to be implanted more deeply in Bond’s body. Bad enough the smarter class of enemies would gouge into Bond’s forearm or thigh if they picked up a stray signal; Q didn’t need them performing chest surgery on him.

In those three weeks that Bond was absent, Q found equilibrium again. Bond was a notorious womaniser, as Eve Moneypenny could attest. Some of his after-action reports read like excerpts from Playboy. There was no way that Bond was interested in Q — not like that.

After two weeks, Q did end up going back to the club, feeling an odd sense of guilt as he prowled the dance floor. He didn’t see Gail, but he did meet Maggie and Rhys, a couple visiting from Cardiff. He ended up spending the night at their hotel room, a night of no-pressure memories and giggled whispers as Maggie shyly told them all to keep quiet, please, the neighbors would hear.

On day twenty-six, Q left work at a reasonable hour so he could stop by a few local shops and pick up the tools needed for a personal project. He could have cannibalised the wires and components from his earliest robotics experiments and the hoover he never found time to use, but working at Q Branch had given him a new appreciation for pristine electronics. The only kitbashing he’d do this time was on the chassis of the Roomba he had purchased solely because he needed a mobile robotic platform.

He returned home just after nine, his rucksack full and two bags over his arm, mind lost in building schematics. The prototype would use the Roomba’s wheels, but if the logic worked, he’d probably build a larger model with six articulated legs for balance.

In the foyer, he picked up his mail and dumped it into one of the bags. Before the door could swing closed, he heard the thump of a hand catching it, followed by footsteps.

The security briefings from his earliest days at MI6 had been clear: Change your route. Don’t linger by your front door or in the public spaces of your building. Move swiftly from your transportation to your house or flat. In truth, he rarely gave those lessons much thought. All the guidelines struck him as overkill; no one would ever imagine he worked for MI6, and even if they did, they’d probably think he was a clerk, which suited him just fine.

Those lessons flooded back to him, though, as he went through the inner door and crossed the hallway and quickly pressed the button to summon the lift. He didn’t have a gun, but he had a taser that he’d upgraded one day while bored. Of course, it was at the bottom of his rucksack and hadn’t been charged for weeks; the cleaning crew had moved the charger to a shelf inconveniently out of line-of-sight from his desk. But according to department regulations, he was supposed to carry it at all times between home and the office, so there it was in his rucksack.

He refrained from pressing the button again — a stupid, pointless act that had no effect on the lift control circuits, but one that was strangely compelling in a fit of nervousness. He could take the stairs. What was better? Being trapped with a possible attacker in a lift or in a stairwell?

None of his thoughts showed on his face. Long before joining MI6, he’d perfected the illusion of always being in control. He appeared calm and perfectly collected when he turned casually  towards the door to see who had followed him inside without a building key.

“Double —” He cut off, remembering too late that they were in public. What the hell was Bond doing here, at Q’s building?

Bond looked infuriatingly composed, cold eyes full of humour at Q’s unacceptable stammering. He walked to Q’s side and glanced at the lift as the doors slid open. “What do they call you?” he asked, stepping past Q into the lift, uninvited.

“What? Who?” Q followed only out of habit.

“Your neighbours. When they pass in the hall, do they say, ‘Morning, Q’?”

Q took a deep breath, regretting not charging the taser. “Welcome back, Bond,” he said, stabbing the button for his floor. “How was your flight?”

“I took a ship, actually.”

“Lovely,” Q said, wondering if he was going to have to send a team out to a wharf or beach somewhere.

“Here, let me help you with that,” Bond offered, and Q found himself handing over the two bags before he could stop himself. Naturally, Bond looked at the contents before turning to Q. “Taking work home with you?”

“Personal project.”

“Oh?”

Q looked sidelong at Bond, wondering what this was all about. Almost a month of recovery from Bond’s strange behaviour slipped away, leaving him rattled and off-balance. “Yes,” was all he answered. He’d worked long and hard to break his habit of oversharing when nervous, preferring instead to retreat into silence and concise answers until he had a better read of the situation.

Bond said nothing else as the lift let them off at Q’s floor. He followed Q as if he’d visited the flat a dozen times before, and Q privately decided he’d do a full security sweep at the first opportunity. The thought of Bond observing his daily life was horrifying. Thank god he’d ended up at Maggie and Rhys’ hotel room and not here.

Wonderful. Almost ten years of working in government service hadn’t made him paranoid, but Bond had done it in just over a month.

He let Bond into his flat, put down his rucksack, and hung his coat on the hook by the door. Bond did the same, revealing a casual button-down shirt rather than the suit that Q had expected. Office gossip said that Bond used to dress casually, back in his earliest days with the Double O programme, but by the time Q had been promoted, Bond had gone strictly suits-and-ties. Apparently he’d been more personable back in the early days, too — not nearly so cold and calculating. Not that his icy personality had ever got in the way of him using his charisma as a weapon against the women in the office.

 _Oh._ Q picked up his rucksack and grinned to himself as the pieces finally slotted together. Bond _hadn’t_ been flirting with him weeks back. Q was so accustomed to a much more relaxed interpretation of sexuality that he’d made assumptions based on his experience rather than facts. That meant Bond wanted a friend or a favour. And much as Q had to worry about things like budgets and reporting on Q Branch’s activities, he rather hoped it was the second, now that he could consider it objectively.

He had to admit, he’d love to get his hands on the types of weapons systems a car would require. And not some over-armoured Humvee, either. That sleek little Audi, for example... Six weeks in Q’s lab and he could turn that car into a tank.

“Been back in London long?” he asked, carrying the rucksack into the kitchen. He set the pack on the island counter and started the coffee pot on his way to the refrigerator.

“Four hours.”

Surprised, Q looked over at Bond, who’d settled on one of the two stools at the breakfast bar that served as a dining table. “Did you report to M?”

Bond’s smile was frosty. “I sent him an email.”

Q huffed and finally turned away from the fridge. He had ten days worth of leftovers and half-eaten takeaway, but nothing fit for a guest. “If he sends a retrieval team to collect you, you’re paying for the damage they do to my door.”

Bond laughed, a surprisingly warm, genuine sound. “Noted,” he agreed.

Q looked over at him, struck by just how relaxed he seemed, especially so soon after a mission. When agents returned from the field, everyone around them walked on eggshells for days, and Bond was one of the worst.

He pulled a stack of menus from a drawer and dropped them on the counter in front of Bond. “Find us something for dinner,” he said before he went to his bedroom to change.

Poor Bond, he thought as he closed the bedroom door. The man was hardly home for a week or two at a time. The only people he saw were at the office, and he wasn’t exactly the most approachable person at MI6. He probably had no friends in London at all.

 

~~~

 

After two hours of good takeaway and a bit of robot dissection, Q was much more sanguine about having Bond at his flat. “You’ve heard of pet therapy? Therapy dogs and the like?” he asked, looking for a clean napkin. There were none to be found, so he licked his fingers clean and picked up the screwdriver to finish removing the Roomba’s strikeplate.

“Of course.”

“Assisted living facilities, hospices, ICUs — places you can’t have pets with dander and fur. And while I suppose some people would consider a snake ‘pet therapy’, most wouldn’t. So —”

“A robot ‘pet’,” Bond interrupted.

Q glanced up and met Bond’s smile with one of his own. “Precisely.” He pulled off the strikeplate and set it aside, carefully piling the screws nearby. “There are sensors that can determine not just the presence or absence of touch — physical pressure — but also the degree and direction. So the correct algorithm can sense someone ‘petting’ a robot, with or against the grain of its fur, and give appropriate feedback. Interactivity like that is the key.”

“This isn’t a project for MI6,” Bond said as he leaned over, reaching past the inverted Roomba for Q’s foil basket of chicken wings. His own basket was empty of everything but bones and a few fallen pieces of breading.

“No, it’s —” Q said before his voice caught in his throat. Bond’s sleeve rode up, exposing ugly yellow marks on the outside of his wrist, tucked between the bone and the base of his hand. “You were handcuffed,” he said blankly, and his first thought was that _he_ wouldn’t leave bruises like that.

Bond glanced at the bruise and shrugged as he stole two of Q’s wings. “Hazard of the job. I thought bruising a small price to pay to avoid drowning.”

Q looked back down at the Roomba, trying to remember what he’d been doing, but his thoughts were all tangled together between horror at Bond’s blasé attitude towards another near-death experience as well as the close-up mental image of Bond’s strong, callused hand clenched into a fist, pulling against unyielding steel.

“This is as good a time as any for you to elaborate,” Bond said, pulling Q out of his thoughts.

Q bit back on the ‘what?’ that came to mind, because there was no sense playing games — not with an agent trained to pick apart a person’s secrets at a glance. Instead he asked, much more calmly, “Why?”

Bond smirked as though he’d read Q’s thoughts and approved. “Because I need to know you. I need to know what makes you tick. What drives you. What gives you the ability to do what you do.”

“I’m not...” Q pulled his gaze away and forced himself to focus on the Roomba. He studied the wiring and circuits; the logic of electricity had always brought him a measure of serenity. “Why such interest in me?”

Instead of answering, Bond dropped the untouched wings onto his plate and rose so abruptly that the couch rocked from the absence of his weight. Q looked away from the Roomba, watching the stiff set of Bond’s shoulders, wondering what had just happened. Bond went to the kitchen sink and turned on the tap. He washed his hands with brusque, angry motions, and then turned off the tap and dried his hands on a tea towel.

Q looked back down at the Roomba just to have somewhere else to rest his eyes. He had no roadmap for this. A great deal of his MI6 orientation as a branch leader had covered dealing with agents, especially the Double O section, but none of it told him what to do when one of those agents started asking about his private life.

And now the institutional paranoia came back in full force as he wondered if this was a _mission_. Had someone gone over Q’s head after facial recognition software picked him up on CCTV entering his nightclub? Had a background check revealed purchases of clothing or — or _other things_ from flagged internet merchants? After Mitchell turned out to be a traitor, everyone had been reexamined under a microscope. There was every possibility that Mallory, M’s successor, had ordered a recheck of everyone.

“I don’t see how it’s anyone’s concern,” he finally said. He put the screwdriver down and sat back, determined to face this interrogation calmly, no matter how personal Bond tried to make it — not that Q would permit Bond to cross that line.

Bond paced across the flat as though restless, crossing from the kitchen to the window and back before he spoke again. “I resigned from MI6.”

 _“What?”_ Q was up off the sofa in an instant, knees banging into the coffee table. Screws rolled onto the rug and bounced over the hardwood floor.

“Six years ago.” Bond looked over at Q, raising a brow as though surprised by his reaction. “I met someone. She betrayed me. She died.”

The terse sentences landed like knife-blows. Slowly, Q sat back down. “Did you kill her?”

“I tried to save her,” Bond said, scowling. Then he shook his head hard, and his steps turned fluid, no longer pacing but prowling as though he were hunting for something to tear apart. “No. I tried to save myself,” he corrected quietly. He glanced at Q as he passed the sofa, and the brief lock of their eyes felt like an electric shock, stealing Q’s breath.

When Bond passed, Q exhaled and pushed his hands through his hair, raking it back out of his face. “Why are —” he began, but then changed his mind. “Are you considering resigning now?”

“No.” The answer came immediately, without hesitation. “But I’m —” He shook his head and flexed his shoulders as he turned to stalk back towards the kitchen. His fingers were twitching now, almost curling into fists. “I’m _losing_ myself.”

“Bond...”

“It takes two kills — two intentional, ordered, premeditated kills — to be considered for the Double O programme,” Bond interrupted. “You’ve never taken a life, have you?”

“No.”

Bond huffed, tossing his head, gaze sweeping across the flat as he paced. Q could imagine him cataloguing entry and exit points, things to use as weapons, and points of surveillance.

“It’s one thing to kill in a firefight. Kill-or-be-killed,” Bond went on. “But to deliberately follow someone — not just to _plan_ a person’s death, but to actually pull the trigger, and then to watch it happen —”

“Bond,” Q interrupted, his voice tight.

“And then to realise that one of your allies — any one of your colleagues — might be planning to do that to you.” Bond looked back at him so fiercely that Q flinched.

“I wouldn’t.”

Bond’s expression shifted as he looked evasively away. “I shouldn’t believe you. M — the old M — would have my head for it.”

“You’re one of mine,” Q told him truthfully. His own anxiety bled away under the need to give Bond the stability he needed. “I protect my own.”

Slowly, Bond nodded. He looked up at the ceiling, cracking his neck, and closed his eyes as though gathering his composure. His shoulders relaxed, and when he turned to walk to the foyer, his steps were smooth and calm.

“Bond,” Q called after him. He almost told him to come back; he didn’t want Bond to leave, but he had no reason to ask him to stay. Instead, he said, “Get some sleep.”

Bond paused without looking back. He nodded.

“And... if you need to talk, you can come back tomorrow,” Q offered.

Bond nodded again and took his coat from the hook by the door. “Thank you,” he said, and let himself out of the flat.


	4. Chapter 4

When Q’s personal mobile rang with an unknown number, he thought nothing of it. He’d given that number to hundreds of people over the last eight or ten years. He put down the articulated sensor arm that would one day be the head and neck of his therapy-bot and picked up the mobile. “Hello?”

“Hello, Q.”

“Bond?” He glanced at his work-issued mobile sitting on the desk across the living room; it was still plugged into the charger. Why was Bond calling his personal mobile instead of the work phone, which was encrypted and monitored? Bond _did_ specialise in uncovering secrets. Maybe this was his way of showing off.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No.” Baffled, he stood, feeling his spine crack from tailbone to neck. He’d been hunched over the coffee table for hours — long enough that his muscles had reconfigured around his bones, apparently. “Did you need something?”

Bond answered after several long, silent seconds. “Nothing essential,” he said lightly. “How’s your robot?”

Q switched the mobile to his other hand and looked down at the mess that had engulfed the coffee table, the rug, and both end tables. “I really need a bigger flat,” he said absently. “This would go much more smoothly with a proper workshop.”

Again, Bond took a few seconds before answering, “What have you done so far?”

“Disassembled the drive and added additional gears.”

“That’s good.”

Q frowned, wondering why the whole conversation felt off. Bond didn’t seem the type for idle chatter, no matter how much he needed a friend. Q stared at his work mobile for a few seconds before his brain caught up with another possibility — Bond might have been _forced_ into making this call to an unmonitored line.

It took Q three painfully long, tense seconds to recall Bond’s duress word — stone — and another two seconds for him to think of a way to give Bond the opening to use it if he chose. “The problem is, hospitals are usually floored in lino, but I want the robots to have outdoor capabilities as well. Not just grass, but paths — brick and the like.”

Bond’s laugh was brief and soft. “I’m alone, Q. No one has a gun to my head, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Q couldn’t hide his sigh of relief. He went into the kitchen and considered rooting through the fridge for a snack. The leftovers of the wings were in there, including the two that Bond had picked up and dropped uneaten onto his own plate. Instead of opening the door, he leaned his forehead on the cool, hard surface and closed his eyes.

“Are you all right, Bond?”

This time, the pause stretched like a noose, threatening suffocation. “No,” Bond finally said.

Q swallowed past the lump in his throat. He took a breath, giving himself a moment to put his thoughts in order. Work and home were two worlds that shouldn’t ever cross, but now, he wouldn’t push Bond away for the sake of privacy or a weekend off. It didn’t matter that Bond’s call for help came to him over his personal mobile instead of a secure radio. Bond was _his_.

“Where are you?”

“Home. If you can call it that,” Bond said in disgust. “I’m never here. I don’t know why I bother.”

“Are you safe to drive?”

He heard Bond inhale deeply. “Yes.”

Eyes narrowed suspiciously, Q asked, “Are you certain?”

“I said yes!”

“Don’t snap at me, Bond,” Q said coolly.

Bond answered quietly, “Apologies.”

Q turned, leaning back against the fridge, feeling a tingling heat spread under his skin. He closed his eyes and said, “Come here.”

“You’re busy.”

“Bond. Come here,” he repeated calmly.

After a long sigh, Bond said, “Fine. Thirty minutes.”

“I’ll buzz you in.”

“No need. I have a key,” Bond said, and rang off.

 

~~~

 

The door to the flat opened exactly twenty-eight minutes later. Most of the robot was now on the desk, and Q had cleared the floor of fallen screws, ball bearings, and fittings. He hadn’t had a chance to change out of the pyjama bottoms and T-shirt he’d thrown on earlier, but at least the flat was no longer a hazard for walking barefoot.

Bond closed the door and engaged all the locks, something he hadn’t done the previous night. Q was certain that was significant, though he didn’t know what it meant.

Q moved the toolbox onto the desk and shoved the coffee table into the middle of the room so he could go directly to the door. Bond was wrapped in his coat, looking neat as always, despite the way his hair was soaked flat to his skull from the rain. He was skittish, meeting Q’s eyes for only a moment before he turned his attention to unbuttoning his coat.

“Let me,” Q said, catching Bond’s gloved hands. The leather was warm, which gave Q hope that Bond had driven rather than walking or taking public transport.

Bond tensed under Q’s touch but didn’t pull away. He gave a slight, jerky nod and let Q lower his hands to his sides.

Q let go of Bond’s hands and started unbuttoning his coat. Underneath, he wore one of his usual stylish, tailored suits, though he’d skipped the tie and left the top two buttons undone. Staring at the exposed hollow of Bond’s throat, Q had to fight the urge to press a finger against his skin.

Then he shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and quickly helped Bond out of the coat. What the hell was he doing, staring at Bond like that? He quickly covered his slip and hung Bond’s coat, falling back on common courtesy to ask, “Tea? Coffee?”

“If you’d like,” Bond said dismissively, pulling off his gloves. He shoved them into the pocket of his coat and trailed after Q to the kitchen. Bond hadn’t specified which he’d prefer, so Q took the carafe out of the coffee pot, gave it a quick rinse, and put it back in place. The coffee pot was automatic, and Q didn’t want the distraction of having to brew tea.

Once the coffee was started, he turned and leaned against the counter, studying Bond’s face. “You look exhausted.”

“I slept poorly,” Bond admitted. He avoided Q’s eyes and looked towards the living room instead. “Redecorating?”

Q felt a blush threaten. His flat was usually neat and ready for unexpected guests, not that he had many of those. “I need a workshop,” he said, repeating his earlier thought.

“You have an entire government branch,” Bond pointed out, a trace of amusement creeping into his voice. He looked back at Q, and a corner of his mouth twitched up in a lopsided smile. “Shouldn’t your hobbies not match what you do at the office all day?”

Some of the tension unknotted from Q’s chest. “I’m not the only one here who takes work home with him.” He leaned across the counter to tug at the lapel of Bond’s jacket, revealing the shoulder holster he’d expected to see. “Is it necessary to carry that here?”

“Generally,” Bond admitted. “If KGB agents were to rappel down onto your balcony, how would I protect you otherwise?”

“Christ, you really are a remnant of the Cold War, aren’t you?” Q teased, relieved at the humour in Bond’s voice. He didn’t know what was behind the sudden about-face, but he was glad nonetheless. “You do know that the Soviet Union fell. _After_ I was born, thank you very much.”

“While you were still in nappies,” Bond countered. “You can’t tell me you’re squeamish about weapons, Q, given that you were the one who issued it to me in the first place.”

“That’s the third one, Bond.” Q turned and went to the cabinet to retrieve mugs. He didn’t bother with the set of guest tea cups on the top shelf, a gift from his mum. Bond could live with sturdy ceramic, rather than fine china. “And you’re not getting another, so don’t lose it, or you’ll be fighting off enemy spies with a pointy stick.”

“I’m trained for that, you know. I can even improvise with branches or lumber, if need be.”

Q laughed, looking back over his shoulder, and saw Bond was grinning back at him. “Feeling better, then?” he asked more gently.

Bond huffed, but his grin didn’t fade completely. “I’d feel a damned sight better if I had that coffee already,” he said gruffly.

Q took the hint and poured two mugs. “How do you take yours?” he asked, replacing the carafe so it could fill the rest of the way. He suspected tonight was going to require more than one cup of coffee for each of them.

“Black is fine.”

“This way,” he said, carrying the mugs into the living room, rather than remaining in the kitchen. He set them down on a side-table by a pair of infrared sensor units and went to move the coffee table.

“Leave it,” Bond said, and walked around him, unnecessarily close, to take the middle seat on the sofa.

Q raised a brow but took a seat beside Bond, leaving the coffee table isolated in the middle of the room. He passed Bond one of the two mugs and then picked up the other one, breathing in the aromatic steam.

They sat in silence, legs pressed together from knee to hip, shoulders occasionally bumping. Bond’s expression turned introspective, and he studied the receding surface of his coffee between sips as if hoping to find answers. With the patience that filled every aspect of Q’s life, Q waited for Bond to speak first.

Finally, when Bond’s mug was drained, he said, “I’ve told you that agents are taught to trust no one — not even the people closest to us.”

Q nodded. He set his mug on the side table and turned to face Bond, folding one leg under the other. “It sounds terribly isolated.”

“It’s safer, though,” Bond admitted with a shrug. He turned the empty mug around in his hands, balancing it on his knee. “You’re... rational,” he finally said. “You don’t let emotion get in the way of your decisions.”

“That’s not my job. When you’re in the field, you need information or guidance, not feelings.”

Bond smiled wryly. “M understood that. Moneypenny understood, when she took the shot. But M is gone, and Moneypenny is safely out of the field.” He glanced at Q and quietly said, “That leaves only you.”

“I try to stay logical, but I won’t make promises I can’t keep,” Q said thoughtfully. “All I can promise is that I’ll do my best to bring you safely back home.”

Bond looked thoughtfully at his mug, running his fingers over the handle. “You’re very careful with what you promise.”

Q took a breath. “It’s not that I don’t _want_ —”

“No, I understand,” Bond interrupted. “I... appreciate it. If you keep your promises real, they’re easier to believe.” He twisted the mug in his hands again. “It makes it easier for me to trust you.”

The responsibility should have been suffocating. In Bond’s profession, no one could keep him safe. Q was precisely as effective as his resources allowed him to be, but if he didn’t have access to surveillance systems, communications satellites, or a dozen other technologies, he was blind and helpless, and Bond was on his own. Still, the acknowledgement settled in Q’s chest, feeling _right_.

“I won’t betray that trust,” he said, reaching out to take the mug out of Bond’s hands. “I may not always be able to help —”

Bond caught his hand, callused fingers pressing gently into Q’s skin. “Sometimes, all I need is to know someone’s there for me.”

Q looked at their joined hands and eased the mug free so he could set it on the side table. Then he took Bond’s hand between his own, daring to trace the veins and tendons, running his thumb over knuckles that had been broken and battered too many times. He couldn’t resist sliding one hand up to circle Bond’s wrist gently, aware of the lingering bruises from his last op.

“I told you,” he said quietly, looking up to meet Bond’s eyes. “You’re mine. I won’t abandon you.”

Bond’s hand relaxed, fingers just brushing over Q’s skin. “Thank you.”

Q indulged himself for just another few seconds before he released Bond’s hand, wary of pushing him too far, too quickly. “More coffee?” he offered, twisting back around to pick up his own half-full mug.

Bond nodded. “Then you can explain what you did to that defenceless robot,” he said with an easy, natural grin.

 

~~~

 

It was long past midnight when Q finally yawned and pushed his chair back from his desk. “The robot wins. I can’t see anymore,” he said, taking off his glasses to rub at his eyes.

Bond sat up from his sprawl on the sofa and looked at his watch. “I’d no idea it was so late,” he said, touching the remote to turn off the telly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

“You didn’t. You should have been asleep hours ago, probably,” Q added critically, watching as Bond rose. He’d taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, but insisted on still wearing the shoulder holster. His eyes were shadowed, his face drawn with fatigue. “You drove here?”

“I’ll be fine,” Bond assured him as he picked up his jacket.

Q walked over and snatched the jacket away. “Yes, you will, because I’m not letting you drive home,” he said, putting the jacket over one of the stools in the kitchen.

“I’m perfectly capable of driving in this condition,” Bond said, following Q. He reached for the jacket, and Q slapped a hand down on it, trapping the fabric against the stool.

“Bond,” he said, meeting Bond’s eyes. Q’s lack of glasses made things blurry, but he could still see that the cold edge from before was gone. “Don’t make me worry about you, and don’t make me drive you home.”

Bond looked Q over and took one step, closing the distance between them. Q let go of the jacket and straightened, refusing to be intimidated by Bond’s build and two-inch height advantage. “Is that your way of inviting yourself home with me?”

“I don’t need to. You’re staying here,” Q told him.

“Am I, now?”

Any other time, Q would have taken Bond’s words as flirtation, but Bond was too tired, and Q refused to risk their friendship by misreading the situation. He reached down and took hold of Bond’s wrist, pulling his hand away from the jacket.

“Yes. You are,” he said quietly.

Bond took a breath, and Q braced for an argument, but Bond just nodded. “Used to getting your way, are you?” he asked with a soft laugh.

“Yes,” Q didn’t hesitate to answer. He steered Bond away from the kitchen and said, “There should be spare toiletries in one of the cabinets. I’ll tidy up dinner.”

Bond left the room without argument. Relieved, Q let out a tense breath and gathered up the rubbish and dishes. Had they actually spent the entire day relaxing together in the living room, watching old movies and current telly like... well, like friends? Apparently they had.

When Bond emerged from the bathroom, he’d untucked his shirt and was carrying his holster. Q glanced at the old, battered sofa and nodded towards the bedroom, steadfastly refusing to think about inviting Bond into his bed for anything more than practical reasons. This was just two friends sharing a room, nothing more.

“Which side do you prefer?” Q asked courteously. When alone, he tended to sprawl in the centre of the bed.

Bond glanced through the open bedroom door, and then shook his head. “I’ll stay on the sofa,” he said, and went into the living room instead.

“It’s terribly uncomfortable,” Q protested, ignoring the twinge of disappointment that went through him. “The bed’s big enough for two. Practically for three.”

Bond deliberately sat down on the sofa and smirked at Q. “Do that often, do you?”

Q felt his face go hot, but steadily said, “Occasionally. You’ve no need to worry, though. Your virtue’s safe.”

“My ‘virtue’,” Bond said wryly, pronouncing the quotes, “hasn’t been safe since I was a teenager.”

Q grinned and went to the linen cupboard to find blankets. “Surprise me.”

“We’re both too tired for that tonight,” Bond answered, raising his voice enough to be heard down the hall.

Q nearly dropped the blankets. He stared at the stacks of towels and linens and licked dry lips. Gathering his courage, he teased, “Next time, I’ll make the suggestion earlier in the evening, then.”

Bond laughed. “Do that,” he invited.

Biting back a sigh, Q closed his eyes and leaned his forehead on the doorjamb, wondering if this was actually happening — more to the point, wondering if anything _else_ was going to happen, in spite of Bond’s reputation for being exclusively a womaniser. If not, he was going to have to watch himself. He suspected that Bond rarely gave his friendship to anyone, and Q wasn’t willing to risk losing that in hopes of something more.

 

~~~

 

The distant scent of coffee teased at Q’s nose, not quite luring him to consciousness until he felt a soft touch on his scalp. Fingers brushed over his hair, combing through the long, unruly strands too gently to actually tug. He blinked a few times, fighting to focus as best he could without his glasses, and tried to remember who he’d had in his bed last night.

Whoever it was, he or she must have been somewhat dull, given the lack of that pleasant morning-after feeling that he loved so much. He rolled onto his back and reached for the bedside table, admiring what he could see of a very well-built male chest, skin unusually tanned for London. As his fingers found his glasses, he glanced down and registered the presence of black trousers rather than more bare skin, which was a shame.

Then he got his glasses into place and remembered exactly what had — more to the point, what _hadn’t_ — happened. “Bond,” he said, fighting to keep his tone even, though he knew his surprise was obvious to see.

“Coffee’s ready,” Bond said, not moving from where he sat on the edge of Q’s bed.

Q pushed up on his elbows, trying not to think of what a mess he probably was. His hair misbehaved at the best of times, and as the blanket slipped down to his waist, he remembered that he hadn’t bothered dressing for bed, despite having Bond in the flat. He resisted the urge to self-consciously dive under the blankets again.

“Thanks. You didn’t need to trouble yourself.” He looked Bond over, irrationally hating just how handsome and composed the man was at... whatever hour of the morning, after spending the night on an uncomfortable sofa. Not a hair out of place, eyes bright and alert. “You look better.”

“The couch isn’t that bad.”

“The couch is horrible,” Q said, sitting up carefully, keeping the blanket pulled up over his hips. “If you like, I’ll make breakfast.”

“Let me take you out instead,” Bond invited. “You live on takeaway and crisps.”

“I do hate cooking,” Q admitted, somewhat relieved. He could manage eggs and toast, but generally settled for cereal most mornings. That or he’d visit the MI6 cafeteria on the way to his office. “Right. Let me shower.”

Bond laughed and lifted a hand to Q’s forehead. The touch paralysed him, stealing his breath, and he closed his eyes as fingers gently drew across his brows, sweeping his hair aside. “Do you ever plan on cutting this?”

“It’s fashion, Bond. You of all people should know that,” he said, though his voice was a bit less sharp than he might have liked. He had to force himself not to lean into Bond’s touch.

“It’s fashion if you’re seventeen,” Bond teased.

Q laughed and opened his eyes, though there really was nowhere safe for him to look. Bond was too close, wearing far too little clothing, and Q had to remind himself again not to act on any assumptions.

“I’ll need to shower and get dressed,” Q reminded him, hoping Bond would take the hint and leave.

“Then have at it.”

Right. Shrugging to himself, Q kicked the blankets aside as best he could with Bond still sitting on them. No pyjamas, no socks, not even pants. It wasn’t anything Bond hadn’t seen before, in a general way, and Q knew full well that he had no reason to be embarrassed. Refusing to feel self-conscious, he sat on the edge of the bed, unplugged his work and personal mobiles from their respective bedside chargers, and walked out of the bedroom, wondering what the hell sort of game Bond was playing.

 

~~~

 

Breakfast was torture, with Bond doing his best to be charming without actually giving Q any idea at all what was going through his head. He was friendly, possibly flirtatious, charismatic, and captivating without ever crossing the line one way or the other. No touches, no hints at his feelings, no comments on Q’s walk to and from the bathroom that morning — which Bond blatantly _hadn’t_ avoided watching.

And then, after they left the restaurant, Bond simply dropped Q back off at his flat with a polite farewell and thanks for letting him stay the night.

If this was going to be Bond’s game, Q was going to end up killing him. He tried to lose himself in the control program for his therapy-bot, but couldn’t code three lines without introducing logic errors. He went for a walk, thinking the cold, rainy weather would help, but it only brought to mind the way Bond’s hair had looked, still wet and slicked back from the rain, when he’d let himself into Q’s flat.

As evening turned to night, he gave up. _Not_ thinking about Bond was the elephant in the room, and Q finally indulged in the luxury of a long shower, giving himself over to his all-too-detailed memory of Bond’s body, so casually displayed this morning.

On Q’s bed.

Christ, the man had him permanently distracted. How was Q expected to maintain his composure on the other end of the radio while Bond was out in the field? He’d thought it stressful to listen to Bond’s voice strained by exertion or worse, but —

But then Q remembered something, and he blinked his eyes open, shaking wet hair out of his face, racking his brain for the details. He’d been coordinating a helicopter launch from an aircraft carrier that supposedly was nowhere near that side of the world, and he’d listened to Bond’s conversation with only half an ear.

Why was he thinking of this now? What was his mind trying to tell him?

He threw open the shower curtain and stepped out onto the mat, water sheeting off his body. He dried his hands enough to comfortably handle his work mobile and logged into his private server. From there, he was able to access transcripts of every communication between his branch and the field agents, and it was only a matter of a few quick button-presses to find the transcript of Bond’s captivity on Silva’s private island.

He skimmed quickly down the transcript until he got to the first conversation after Silva arrived.

> _SILVA: Well, first time for everything, Bond.  
>  007: What makes you think it’s my first time?  
>  SILVA: Oh, Mr. Bond!_

Previously, Q had only glanced at that exchange, writing it off as a reference to Bond’s captivity. No surprise, there. The Double O agents tended to get into trouble deliberately. Some idiot had apparently put it into their field manual that an excellent technique for infiltrating the enemy’s headquarters was to allow oneself to be captured — as Silva himself had proven so brilliantly. Sometimes, Q privately despaired that the entire Double O branch was made up of particularly ingenious idiots.

Now, Q reread the exchange, looking at it in light of Bond’s possible advances. Perhaps his reputation was... not undeserved, certainly, but not so restrictive in reality.

Q put the mobile down and got back into the shower, shivering now despite the warm air. Bond might not be as exclusively heterosexual as Q had assumed, but even then pursuing any sort of a relationship was a terrible idea. Yes, MI6 employees were encouraged to date within the ranks — it helped prevent mishaps with security clearances — but _no one_ was encouraged to date the Double O's. They were all wildcards, rogue nukes, weapons to be unleashed and then safely stored away until they were next required.

No, he decided. Bond might be flirting or he might be acting this way simply because he had no idea how to treat a friend. Either way, Q wouldn’t pursue anything more, even if Bond thought that was what he wanted. Q was certain that their tastes weren’t compatible, and he wasn’t going to destroy their friendship.

Still, it was nice to imagine, for just a few minutes, that Bond really was his.


	5. Chapter 5

Q’s personal mobile rang when the taxi was halfway to the club. “Hello?” he answered, looking out at the rainy street. It was still early, and the traffic was heavy.

“You’re going back to that nightclub,” Bond answered confidently.

Startled, Q looked around irrationally, wondering how the hell Bond knew. “How — Where are you?” he demanded. “Are you following me?”

“I’m only now getting into my car,” Bond said, his voice full of amusement. “Interested in company?”

“That’s the idea — Wait, _you?_ ” he asked sharply.

“Unless you’d rather someone else,” Bond answered, no longer so amused.

“No. Though I’m — Do you even —” He faltered and gave up, closing his eyes to rest his forehead on the cold window glass. “You want to go out.”

“I _am_ going out,” Bond corrected. “It’s a matter of deciding _where_.”

“You want to go to _my_ nightclub,” Q clarified.

“That is where you’re going, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Bond, it’s...” Q faltered again and shook his head. “Look, just... stay there. I’ll come to you.”

“There’s no need for you to change your plans. Were you meeting someone?”

“No one in particular,” Q admitted. “It’s... it’s fine. Really.”

“We can meet elsewhere, if you’d prefer.”

Q looked down at himself and laughed softly. “Believe me, Bond. There’s nowhere _on the planet_ where you and I could possibly be seen together unless one of us changes clothes.”

 

~~~

 

Knowing you looked good and _accepting_ it were two very different things, Q thought as he knocked on the door to Bond’s very expensive, very upscale flat. The door opened, and Bond stepped aside, looking Q over.

“Your doorman probably thinks I’m charging by the hour,” Q said flatly as he started to undo the silver buckles down the front of his coat. It was the same one he always wore to the club, except during the height of summer. This time, though, he wore sleek ankle boots and PVC trousers instead of leather.

“How the hell did you get those on?” Bond asked, staring at Q’s legs.

“It’s an art.” He shrugged out of the coat and looked for somewhere to hang it.

Bond reached out, but not for the coat. He ran his fingers down Q’s shirt, thoughtfully saying, “So you do own silk after all.”

“Not to be worn at the office, for obvious reasons.” Q finally hung the coat over Bond’s arm and stepped around him. “I think we need to have a talk, Bond.” He walked into a living room the size of his own flat, with room to spare. The far wall was all glass, looking out over the cityscape. The furniture was rich brown leather, dark brocade, and polished wood. Q’s boots rang on the hardwood floor before his steps took him onto a carpet that must have cost more than he made in a year. No wonder why the doorman had looked at him so strangely. He had no business being here even if he wasn’t dressed to go out.

Bond caught up with him, no longer carrying his coat. “You hide this well, at the office.”

As if he was supposed to wear this to the office? No matter what Q did in his personal time, he was a professional at MI6. Bristling, Q turned to face him. “What do you want from me, Bond? No — first, how did you know I was going out tonight? Are you having me followed or did you wire my flat?”

With a smirk, Bond said, “That would be telling.” He walked past Q, making a point to stare at him, and went towards the corner of the room.

“Don’t,” Q said as soon as he spotted the bar that was Bond’s destination. “I want you sober for this.”

“It would take far more than one drink —”

“Don’t, or I leave.”

Bond stared at him, body going tense as he shifted his weight, balancing evenly on both feet. He held himself with his customary confidence — arrogance, even — and met Q’s eyes as the seconds dragged by.

Q let them pass. With anyone else, he might have turned and walked away, but he needed Bond to show his hand. He was done playing this ridiculous game of cat-and-mouse without at least knowing all the rules.

Finally, Bond nodded once and went to the sofa. He sat at one end, arm stretched across the back, and said, “Please, sit.”

Not quite able to believe that Bond had given in — _again_ — Q sat, choosing one of the upholstered armchairs both to keep a safe distance between himself and Bond and because PVC and leather did not safely mix.

“How did you know?” he asked, leaning back as comfortably as he could. PVC wasn’t meant for sitting, either — not when it was this tight.

“Tracking device in your watch,” Bond answered, glancing down, perhaps at the watch Q always wore, perhaps somewhere else.

Q clenched his jaw and had to make an effort not to look down at the watch. He hadn’t noticed any scratches or damage, nor had the delicate workings apparently been harmed by whatever Bond had done. At least he hoped Bond had tampered with the watch. If he’d intimidated one of Q’s techs into planting the tracker, Q was perfectly willing to fire his entire department for the disloyalty.

He’d deal with the tracker later, once he had proper precision tools. For now, he asked, “Why did you want to meet me at the club?”

Bond met his eyes for a second before looking down at his body again, this time taking a slow, obvious path, making his interest clear. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Q’s wariness of damaging their friendship — their working relationship — eroded under Bond’s stare, and he was never so grateful as he was now for his deep-seated need to stay in control of any situation, especially one as charged as this.

“That’s not an answer.”

Bond’s eyes snapped back up to meet Q’s. “Look at yourself, Q,” he said quietly. “Did you think that one glimpse was enough for me?”

“You’re a colleague, Bond,” Q said carefully. “More than that, I consider you a friend.”

“I have few friends, and only one I can trust: You.” His gaze slid back down as though he were compelled to commit to memory every minute, glossy black detail of Q’s trousers.

Q exhaled slowly, trying not to let the rush of power get to him. Bond _wanted_ him, even if he couldn’t quite understand it. This man who’d seduced women on every continent, if rumours were to be believed, _wanted him_. More to the point, he knew who Q was, deep inside, and _still_ wanted him.

That thought tempered his exhilaration, because Bond’s sweeping assumptions might be nowhere close to the reality of Q’s preferences. But to have one night with Bond, Q was willing to forgo those preferences, if that was what Bond wanted.

“What do you —” Then he cut himself off, shaking his head. Bond was too evasive, too good with twisting words to his own advantage. “Tell me what you expect.”

Bond’s eyes narrowed, not in irritation but in confusion. “You haven’t done anything I’ve _expected_ since we met, Q. You _defy_ expectations.” He rose and circled around the low, carved coffee table, never looking away from Q’s eyes. “I can’t —”

“Stop,” Q interrupted, holding up a hand. He wasn’t about to let Bond tower over him in that way that was instinctive to him. “Sit back down.”

“Then join me on the couch,” Bond countered, a low, inviting hint of seductiveness creeping into his tone.

“No,” Q answered, ignoring the little voice in the back of his head that was cataloguing all the ways he could use that couch. Bond was pushing him, challenging him, and it wasn’t in him to ignore that challenge. He pointed at the floor at Bond’s feet and ordered, “Sit down, Bond.”

Bond stared at him, no longer seductive but assessing, studying Q’s expression and body language. Then he glanced down, tugged at his trousers, and sat on the carpet, three feet from Q’s armchair.

Q forgot how to breathe.

“I _want_ you,” Bond said bluntly, looking up at him. He sat casually, twisting to lean a shoulder against the sturdy coffee table, one leg folded up to provide a convenient armrest. He could have been modeling clothes or posing for a photograph. He acted as though sitting on the floor like this were perfectly normal, something he did all the time, but his eyes had gone wide and dark with an intensity that belied his relaxed posture. “I _expect_ you to continue with me as you’ve always done: honestly.”

“You...” Q closed his eyes, trying to hide the reality of the moment long enough to collect his thoughts. “I’m not risking our friendship.”

“We’re not fifteen, Q,” Bond countered, irritated. “We’re adults and professionals, perfectly capable of separating work from our personal lives.”

“I know _you_ are, but you don’t know me,” Q said tightly, looking back down at Bond. Every instinct was screaming at him to call Bond close enough to touch, maybe to get rid of his neatly buttoned shirt and tailored jacket, but he knew better than to start anything he might not be able to finish. “You don’t know what I want.”

“Then tell me.”

“Everything.”

Bond didn’t look away, but his expression became guarded. “You’ll need to elaborate a bit.”

“No. You’re not an idiot, Bond. You’ve figured out more than you’re letting on,” Q accused. “First rule: you do as I say, and that means full disclosure. No word games.”

Bond’s cold eyes widened at Q’s tone before he looked away, staring off towards the floor. He took a breath, and Q studied his profile for a few long, quiet seconds before he thought to count the beats of the pulse visible at his throat; Bond’s heart was racing.

Q shifted, regretting the PVC trousers even more now as he realised Bond _liked_ the idea.

“I’ve never...” Uncharacteristically, Bond faltered, avoiding Q’s eyes. “The details aren’t important. I trust you,” he finally said, looking back up at Q.

“Tomorrow, I’ll explain why that’s such a _spectacularly_ bad idea,” Q said dryly. He moved a hand off the armrest and reached for Bond, saying, “Come here.”

Bond stood, and Q bit back the impulse to point out that he’d said nothing about standing before he moved. He just let Bond walk the two steps to the chair. Bond accepted the unspoken invitation and took hold of Q’s hand.

Q stood, instinctively putting them on equal footing, and reached for the back of Bond’s neck with his free hand. Bond shifted one more step closer and leaned down, but Q said, “No. Don’t.”

Bond’s frown turned confused as Q rested his hand under the short, neat line of hair at the back of Bond’s neck. Q let his fingers brush over sensitive skin and felt the way Bond’s body responded with a subtle, almost hidden shiver before he tensed again as though alarmed by the impulse to surrender.

Like easing a nervous falcon, Q thought, letting the warmth of his hand seep through Bond’s skin. He remembered seeing a bird, inch-long talons gently touching its handler’s glove, mantling its wings violently until the handler soothed it with a touch. Now, Q soothed Bond in the same way, waiting until some of the tension left his posture.

“You do as I say, but _only_ that,” Q said quietly, looking into Bond’s eyes. “If something feels wrong or uncomfortable or dangerous, you tell me. Do you understand?” he asked, distilling down the very complex conversation that they’d have later.

With a faint, tense laugh, Bond nodded. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“You’ve said that before,” Q answered, and pulled Bond gently down for a kiss.

At once, Bond tried to take control. He wrapped his free arm around Q’s waist and pulled him close, licking at Q’s lips. Q let it happen for a few seconds before he drew his head away and tightened his fingers on the back of Bond’s neck.

“Let go, Bond,” Q said quietly as soon as Bond met his eyes.

Bond took a frustrated breath and eased the pressure of his arm. “Q...”

Q relaxed both hands and would have stepped back if he hadn’t been trapped against the armchair. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“And if I want _you?_ ”

“Then it’s on my terms,” Q said steadily. With anyone else, he would have asked, ‘Do you trust me?’ but he couldn’t do that with Bond. Their trust was too important to their working relationship, too fragile to strain across the minefield of misunderstandings that could surround them if Q wasn’t very, very careful.

Bond looked down at Q’s body and took another deep breath. “All right,” he finally said. “Are you always this complicated?”

Q laughed and shook his head, gently releasing Bond’s hand to take hold of his face. “Don’t fight me, Bond.” He slid his thumb across Bond’s lower lip. “I’ll take care of you. I promise. Just do as I say.”

Bond opened his mouth enough to touch his tongue to Q’s thumb. “Is that all you want?”

Q shook his head and pressed his thumb in just enough to feel the sharp edge of Bond’s teeth. “Take off your jacket.”

Bond’s lips twitched up as he shrugged out of the jacket and let it fall into one hand.

Before he could drop it, Q interrupted, “Put it on the other armchair. Don’t throw it.”

Bond licked at Q’s thumb again and asked, “Are you —”

“Bond.” Q dropped his hand and sat back down, never breaking eye contact. His control over the situation was tenuous, a thin thread that would snap if Bond so much as twitched, but only Bond could reinforce it. Q couldn’t take what Bond was unwilling to give him.

After one disbelieving moment, Bond licked at his lip and went to the other armchair. He draped his jacket over the back. Then he lifted one hand to the other cuff, but stopped himself before undoing the button.

Q took a breath, hoping that his pause had been instinct and not just a conscious decision to play along. “Holster first.”

Bond looked sharply in his direction. “I’m keeping it close by. That’s for your safety as well as mine,” he said without hesitation.

“Of course,” Q agreed a bit uncomfortably. This was a first for him, having a handgun within arm’s reach during a scene. Then again, this was equally unfamiliar ground for Bond. The presence of the weapon would presumably reassure him.

Lips twitching up into a smile, Bond asked, “Are we staying out here?”

Q thought the reality of Bond’s bedroom might well be too much for their first night — their first scene, if it could be called that. Besides, he wanted to keep Bond aware that this wasn’t anything he’d experienced with anyone else. “For now.”

Bond twisted the holster straps into a neat bundle and set the weapon down on the coffee table, grip pointed towards the middle ground between the two armchairs.

“Now, take off the shirt,” Q told him. “All day, I’ve been thinking about how you looked this morning. You did that on purpose.”

“As if you’re innocent?” Bond challenged. “Do you always sleep unclothed?”

“Most nights, unless it’s freezing,” Q said with a shrug. Bond was taking his time, undoing each cuff before slowly working his way down the centre of his body.

“You’re in excellent shape, considering that you spend all your time at a computer or your workbench,” Bond said, lips curving up further into a smirk. “Which is obvious to anyone seeing you in those trousers.”

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned them,” Q said, moving a hand from the armrest to his thigh. Bond’s eyes locked to the motion. “I take it you prefer these over the leather ones?”

“I’d need further study,” Bond said, almost absently tugging his shirttails out of his trousers. He hung the shirt on the corner of the chair beside his jacket and looked slowly up from where Q’s fingers absently traced circles on the slick PVC. “Were you going to join me?”

“Shoes and socks,” Q said, ignoring the question. “Under the chair and out of the way.”

Bond looked back down for just a moment before he sat on the edge of the armchair and crossed one foot over the other leg. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Since I was sixteen.”

Startled, Bond met his eyes. “Started a bit young, did you?”

Q laughed. “I’m not an idiot, Bond. I started uni at fifteen, but I didn’t tell anyone my age. I _certainly_ didn’t tell any of my girlfriends.”

“Boyfriends?” Bond asked, setting his shoes down under the chair.

“Not until much later,” Q admitted. “I had enough difficulty dealing with girls without throwing a sexuality crisis in the mix. Besides, once you reach a certain set of interests, gender becomes less important than other preferences.”

Bond draped his socks over his shoes and looked curiously at Q. “Oh?” he prompted.

Q nodded a bit hesitantly, debating just how strictly to stick to his own rule of full disclosure. He suspected that Bond would latch onto any vulnerability, especially this early in their relationship, but he didn’t want to later be caught in a lie. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “I don’t enjoy submitting, in most circumstances. I can switch, but I prefer this.” He smiled faintly, trying to put it into terms Bond would find familiar. “Call it a pathological need to control everything around me.”

Bond laughed. “At least it’s taught you to be calm in a crisis.”

“You could say that.” Q admitted, slouching more comfortably into one corner of the armchair. The change let him spread his legs a bit more, and his hand slipped down over his inner thigh. Bond’s eyes dropped to it and lost their usual glacial edge under a heat so intense that Q could feel it from three feet away. His obedience was intoxicating.

“If you want me to play this game of yours, I’ll need to know the rest of the rules,” Bond finally said, looking up just long enough to meet Q’s eyes for a single heartbeat.

“It’s not a game,” Q corrected.

Bond looked back up, puzzled.

“It’s _who I am._ ” Q lifted his free hand, gesturing for Bond to stand. He did so, and Q felt another thrill of excitement. “It’s not about sex, Bond — or not _only_ about sex,” he corrected. For him, there was no real line between the two. “It’s about earning your trust and learning what you need.”

“Not ‘want’, I note,” Bond said dryly.

“Do you realise what a complete disaster your life would be if you got what you wanted more than you already do?” Q rose and walked to Bond, lifting a hand to his chest. Really, the man was in inhumanly perfect shape, for all that he’d been shot, stabbed, burned, and thrown off bridges.

Bond started to respond with a touch of his own before he caught himself. He pulled his hands away from Q, irritation flickering across his expression, and let them fall back to his sides. “I don’t see it that way.”

Q rewarded the obedience with a soft kiss to Bond’s cheek. “Let me show you,” he said, flattening his palm against Bond’s chest and moving up slowly, enjoying the feel, so different from the people he usually picked up or dated. The older he’d got, the less time he had to break down someone’s barriers, and somewhere along the line, he’d started preferring sweet, readily obedient submissives who wouldn’t put up a fight.

Bond was different — he would’ve been different even if he’d done this a hundred times before, simply because of the raw power in him. There was nothing safe or certain about this at all. Bond was a fire just waiting to consume them both.

Not that Q could resist such a challenge. Bond was beautifully responsive, breath catching as Q kissed down the side of his neck. “What about you?” Bond asked as he lifted his head, encouraging Q’s exploration, and touched Q’s hip with a motion that felt unconscious.

Q bent his head to taste the soft skin over Bond’s collarbone. He dropped his free hand to catch Bond’s wrist and gently pushed his hand away. “What about me?” he asked, carefully pressing his teeth against Bond’s collarbone, avoiding even a hint of pain.

Bond shivered but didn’t pull away. “I don’t know if I’m doing my share of the work here,” he teased, though his voice was strained, without his usual devil-may-care attitude.

“All I want you to do,” Q said as he bit again, still gently, “is to feel what I’m doing to you.”

Bond’s exhale was shaky, but his posture remained strong, shoulders relaxed. “I’m certainly not about to stop you.”

“I want you concentrating on me.”

Q licked gently over the spot he’d bit and then looked up to meet Bond’s eyes. With anyone else, he would’ve brought out a blindfold at this point, even a makeshift one, but he had to be careful with Bond. Outside a scene, Q had never been restrained in his life; for Bond, his experiences were precisely the opposite.

So instead, hoping his instincts were right, he reached up to touch Bond’s face and said, “Close your eyes.”


	6. Chapter 6

_Close your eyes._ The words echoed in Q’s mind, and his heart pounded as he struggled to stay impassive, hoping he wasn’t pushing too hard.

Bond stared at him, searching his face, brows drawn together in a tense frown. Q held his ground, steady and calm, prepared to wait as long as Bond needed. This was Bond’s decision, not Q’s.

At last, Bond closed his eyes. Q bit back a sigh of relief. The trial wasn’t over yet; this was just the first step, and he knew this momentary surender wouldn’t last.

Wondering just how good he was at predicting Bond’s thoughts, Q watched expectantly, counting silently. Sure enough, Bond lasted only four seconds before he opened them again, asking, “What’s —”

“And keep them closed,” Q said, touching Bond’s cheekbone with one fingertip. “There’s nothing to worry about. You’re in your own home. You could probably get your hands on your weapon and shoot three intruders before I’d have a chance to hide behind the sofa.”

As Q had intended, Bond laughed, and didn’t open his eyes. “Just stay behind me. The sofa won’t protect you worth a damn.”

“I know I’m safe with you.” Q kissed the corner of Bond’s mouth. “I’ve got you, Bond. Let me take care of you, now.”

Bond took a breath and nodded, muttering, “I feel damned foolish like this.”

“Don’t. You look perfect,” Q said, stepping back to give himself room to admire Bond’s body. Careful never to move his hands away — always grounding Bond’s awareness with touch — Q petted him, feeling the contours of Bond’s muscles with broad, slow strokes of his palms. “I could do this all night,” he said truthfully, keeping his voice even, though he frowned as he felt the ridges of scars under his fingertips. Bond was settling into a new place in Q’s thoughts, no longer solely the almost-rogue secret agent but something more, setting Q’s professionalism at war with his need to protect and care for what was his.

He stepped left, casually avoiding the scars high on the right side of Bond’s chest. As if the bullet wound hadn’t been bad enough, Bond had gone digging around in there with a knife weeks later, or so the story went. While Q had been fighting through reams of paperwork, polygraphs, and psychological evaluations, Bond had been entirely off the grid, pretending to be dead while using alcohol and self-neglect to finish what a bullet and 300-foot drop had started. In the end, Q had been promoted to branch director, and Bond had returned, dug bullet fragments out of his own flesh, and rushed back into the field as soon as he’d been released.

Q pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the peak of Bond’s shoulder as he ran his hands down, fingers curving over his muscles. When he reached Bond’s wrist, Q lifted his hand and set his lips against Bond’s fingertip. Bond inhaled sharply as Q licked his way down, taking Bond’s finger into his mouth. He sucked and pulled back, a slow drag of tongue and lips against callused knuckles.

Bond muttered, “Christ, Q,” under his breath.

Laughing softly, Q released Bond’s hand. It hung there for a moment, as though Bond were about to reach for Q, but then he let it fall naturally to his side with a rough, frustrated exhale.

 _He’s mine,_ Q thought, heart pounding at the realisation.

He moved behind Bond, noting the way Bond’s shoulders stiffened for a moment. Q put his arms around him and pressed close against his back. Bond leaned into him, and when the tight curve of his arse pressed against Q’s cock, trapped by PVC, it was Q’s turn to let out a frustrated breath.

Immediately, he considered rushing through this. He’d left his flat prepared; he had condoms in one pocket, lubricant in the other. He could have Bond stripped naked and bent over the sofa in under two minutes.

He bit high up on Bond’s shoulder, a little harder than he’d intended. Bond didn’t flinch. He just shifted his weight, grinding his arse back against Q, who had to pull his head away so he wouldn’t be tempted to bite even harder.

Reluctantly, Q stepped back, setting his hands to either side of Bond’s spine. Bond started to turn as if to look over his shoulder before he stopped himself. “Are you certain this is all you want, Q?” Bond asked, his voice rough and low.

“I want far more,” Q answered, and was rather proud of how steady his voice was. “This is where I want to start, though.”

Bond made a thoughtful sound and arched his back as Q skimmed a light, shivery touch down his spine. “You really are going to drag this out all night, aren’t you?”

Q stepped forward again, dropping his hands to close around Bond’s wrists. He ground against Bond’s arse and spoke quietly in his ear: “Some time very, very soon, I’m going to spend an entire day like this, Bond. I’m going to catch you in one of your perfect, tailored suits and slowly strip off every bit of fabric. I’m going to learn every inch of your skin. I’m going to take you apart until I’m all that’s left in your entire world.”

Bond went tense. Panic spiked through Q as he wondered if he’d pushed too far, too fast. Bond didn’t know — he didn’t _understand_ what Q wanted and what Q offered — and Q’s words were challenging. Someone trained to paranoia could even hear them as a threat.

He couldn’t back down, though, so he kept his hold of Bond’s wrists, knowing that Bond could easily break free, and he listened to the sound of Bond’s breathing. He wanted to lean forward more, to study his profile. Were Bond’s eyes still closed or was he studying his environment, a wary predator wondering how best to meet a threat? That thought brought a rush of adrenaline that was purely self-defence; Bond’s instincts might well put an end to this in a sudden, even violent way. Q knew Bond wouldn’t hurt him intentionally, but every Double O agent was overtrained. Accidents happened.

Slowly, though, the tension left Bond’s body. He bowed his head, stretching his neck, and flexed his shoulders before he straightened again. He didn’t say anything, but Q felt the moment he allowed himself to slip back under Q’s will.

Dizzy with relief, Q breathed across the back of Bond’s neck. Bond’s shiver was the final reassurance Q needed. He followed his breath with the soft touch of his tongue, and then followed that with a kiss. He let go of Bond’s wrists slowly, dragging his fingers across the waistband of Bond’s trousers, and he circled around until he was standing in front of Bond once more.

He touched Bond’s lips with one fingertip, encouraging them to part. Bond’s eyes closed more tightly as though he had to remind himself of Q’s wishes. He licked at Q’s fingertip before bowing his head, sucking Q’s finger into his mouth.

“We haven’t discussed your limits,” Q said, struggling to keep his voice even. Bond trapped Q’s finger between his tongue and palate before he pulled back with beautiful friction. “What you... enjoy or don’t.”

Bond laughed and pulled his head away with one last flick against Q’s fingertip. His eyes opened, meeting Q’s, as he asked, “Is it my turn, then?”

Q shook his head. “We’re not taking turns,” he said roughly. “Eyes closed, Bond.”

With a huff, Bond closed his eyes and licked his lips tensely. “Very well. Limits. Don’t bother to concern yourself.”

Frustrated, Q said, “For tonight, if there’s anything you don’t want me to do — if anything hurts — you need to tell me.”

“Fine,” Bond said dismissively. “What do _you_ want?”

“Your obedience.” The word that Q had so carefully avoided slipped out before he could catch himself.

Bond hissed in a breath as his eyes snapped open again.

Q met Bond’s gaze steadily, hoping to hide the uncertainty that threatened to choke him. “Bond, close your eyes.”

Slowly, Bond let out his breath. He flexed his shoulders again, fingers curling into fists.

Then, he closed his eyes.

Q bit his lip to keep from betraying his relief. He had no illusions that Bond was ready for Q to actually push him down into his role. Did Bond even realise that he held all the power here?

Q should have explained before starting anything. Tonight should have been nothing more than a conversation about experiences and expectations, limits and safewords, and possibly a suggestion that Bond not plant tracking devices on Q ever again. Instead, he’d let his desire get the better of him, and now here they were, both of them unprepared, fumbling around in the darkness instead of actually knowing what the hell was going on.

All the scene acronyms — SSC, RACK, all the other variants and nuances — flooded his thoughts as he tallied up the guidelines he’d disregarded to this point, but a part of him couldn’t be arsed to care. Bond already viewed rules as mere suggestions, and if he wanted to stop, all he had to do was walk away.

Recklessly, Q twisted his fingers into Bond’s short, sun-bleached hair and pulled him close for a kiss. He nipped at Bond’s lips before he swept his tongue into Bond’s mouth, refusing to cede even a hint of control. He dropped his other hand to Bond’s hip and dug his fingers against fine, tailored wool to steady himself. Bond bucked forward and growled in frustration when their cocks pressed together, separated by far too much cloth and PVC. The evidence of Bond’s arousal was more reassuring than Q had imagined.

Q ended the kiss when he felt steadier, more in control of himself and the situation and even Bond, who had made no attempt to pull free. He relaxed the fingers trapping Bond’s hair and combed gently through to ease the sting, and shifted his hand to touch Bond’s arm, feeling the tense muscles.

“It might be easier if you clasp your hands behind your back,” Q suggested. He wasn’t going to let himself think of leather cuffs or soft ropes — not now and probably not ever, with Bond, knowing his history — but restraints weren’t the only way to control someone’s body.

After a long, thoughtful moment, Bond pulled his hands back, shoulders tensing all over again. He licked his lips, and for a moment, Q thought Bond might speak. In the end, though, he remained silent but tense.

Q remembered how difficult it had been for him to understand his need to dominate his sexual partners. He’d spent years wishing he could be normal. Now, he watched Bond go through the first steps of that same struggle — years of professional training at war with the unrealized need to submit to someone he trusted.

Wanting to reassure Bond, Q ducked his head and kissed Bond’s neck, feeling the pulse beat hard and fast against his lips. Bond’s stance changed subtly, and he allowed Q to nudge his head back, exposing the softer skin under his jaw. Q swiped his tongue across before he kissed down to press his tongue against the hollow of Bond’s throat, feeling the motion as Bond swallowed reflexively.

Encouraged, Q stepped back and kissed down Bond’s chest, swiping his tongue over his nipple. Bond sucked in a breath and tensed again, in a way that was subtly encouraging. Q glanced up and saw Bond’s eyes were still closed. The sight restored some of his confidence; he could do this.

He bit carefully, watching Bond’s reaction to the sting. He didn’t draw away, so Q did it again, and then moved to the other nipple with teasing flicks of his tongue.

Bond exhaled, breath ruffling Q’s hair as he bowed his head, eyes open once more, watching Q with hungry fascination. “Q —” he began, before complaining, “This is absurd. What the hell is your name?”

A laugh escaped before Q could lock it away. “You haven’t broken into my files yet, Bond?” he teased.

“I did,” Bond growled. “Your personnel record —” He gasped as Q bit again, intentionally trying to distract Bond from the matter of his name.

“Hm?”

Bond tossed his head and shifted his weight. “You know damned well it lists ‘Q’ as your initial, and I doubt your last name at birth was ‘Evans’.”

“Correct on both counts,” Q answered. He straightened and dragged his fingertips down Bond’s abdomen. If Bond was ticklish, he hid it well, though his breath hitched when Q’s fingers hooked over his waistband.

“Tampering with government files is a felony,” Bond said, voice a bit strained.

Q ran a thumb over the belt buckle, rolling his eyes when he recognised the subtle brand stamped into the metal. Was _everything_ Bond owned either designer or bespoke? “My actual file still exists.” There were some databases that even he wouldn’t alter — not yet, anyway, not until he had their security completely mapped.

He pushed the thought aside and unbuckled Bond’s belt, though he left the leather trapped in the belt loops. Sliding the belt free would only lead to him _using_ it.

“Eyes closed, Bond,” he said, unhooking the waistband of Bond’s trousers. This time, Bond barely hesitated before he complied. When Q unzipped his flies, Bond let out a sigh as if to say _finally_. Q glanced up at Bond’s closed eyes and smirked as he pushed the trousers down over Bond’s hips, revealing grey boxer briefs — silk, naturally.

“I’d ask if you were wearing these with me in mind, but I have a feeling you’ve nothing so ordinary as cotton in your dresser,” Q said wryly.

“I have a refined —” Bond started, and cut off with a hiss as Q ran one finger over the taut, body-warmed silk, tracing the length of his cock.

Q watched Bond’s body go tense as he fought the urge to move his hands. When he didn’t even open his eyes, Q carefully knelt down, trying to silently fight the too-tight PVC, and exhaled close to the silk.

“Fucking _Christ,_ ” Bond breathed. He didn’t move his hands, and Q nearly purred with approval. “Q —”

“Shh.” Q pressed his tongue to the silk and dragged up gently, backing away when Bond pushed his hips forward. “Stay still, Bond. Let me do this,” he said, reaching up to tug the boxers away from his body.

Bond stilled, muscles locked and tense, only his chest moving as he breathed deeply. He didn’t answer, and Q wondered if his silence was frustrated or obedient. Q eased the pants over Bond’s cock and down, listening to the way Bond’s breathing caught and stuttered.

He stood and moved his hands to Bond’s hips, saying, “Step forward.” With anyone else, he might have said ‘open your eyes’, but he knew that Bond could walk a tightrope blindfolded without falling. Bond kicked his feet free and let Q guide him two steps away from the discarded clothing.

“There. Stop,” Q said, looking down at Bond’s body, still not entirely believing that this was really happening. Bond was tense and alert and _dangerous,_ but he wasn’t fighting Q’s control. Instead, he stood there, eyes still closed, and waited for Q.

“Kneel down,” Q said, his voice unsteady. He was braced for Bond’s defiance; he knew there was no way he’d find Bond’s limits without pushing, but that didn’t make the idea any less nerve-wracking.

Hesitantly, Bond lowered himself to one knee, then the other. His hands were clenched into fists at the small of his back.

Q took a breath, relieved. He wanted Bond obedient but comfortable with his surrender. Then an idea struck him, and he touched Bond’s hair, saying, “Open your eyes. Look left.”

Bond did as he was told, and his slight, confused frown smoothed as his gaze fell on the handgun, still within reach, now almost directly to his left. He nodded, understanding, and looked up at Q.

He moved his hand from Bond’s hair to his face, pressing a thumb against his lower lip. “I want your mouth, Bond,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to do anything —”

Bond’s smirk was softer than normal. “I’m not refusing,” he interrupted.

Q huffed out a laugh. “You can move your hands,” he said, doubting that even the most experienced sub could manage to open these trousers with just his mouth.

Bond raised a brow at that, as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him, but let it pass. He unfastened the too-tight PVC and started to work it over Q’s hips. As he did, he looked up and asked, “Who did you have in mind when you _forgot_ pants?”

“It’s called style, Bond.” Q sighed as he finally, _finally_ felt Bond’s hand on his cock, sliding down over his balls, freeing them from the PVC. “Wait — front right pocket.”

Bond looked up with a little frown and — to Q’s regret — moved his hands to the PVC, finding the condoms Q had pocketed before leaving his flat, back when he’d intended to have a very different sort of evening. Then Bond looked back up, brows raised, and asked, “As if we haven’t been to Medical often enough?”

“ _You_ go to Medical after every op because you have no sense of self-preservation,” Q corrected. “I have a desk job and requisite annual physicals, and I won’t take chances with your health.”

Bond shook his head but ripped one of the condoms free. “Are you always this responsible?”

Q reached down to tip Bond’s head back, and he met Bond’s eyes steadily. “I have to be, or I wouldn’t have a right to ask for your trust.”

For a moment, Bond stared at him, his gaze going distant. Then he turned away and leaned into Q’s hand as if reassuring himself with the contact. Q stroked a finger along his jaw, giving him time and wishing he knew what Bond was thinking.

Then, after a deep breath, Bond moved away, rising up on his knees as he touched Q’s hip with rough, callused fingertips. Unbidden, Bond leaned in and followed the path of his fingers with his tongue. Q hissed in a breath at the electrifying contact and asked, “A bit impatient, are you?”

Bond huffed, breath hot against Q’s skin. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” Bond said as his mouth moved closer to Q’s cock.

The need to take back control just barely won out over self-indulgence. Q caught Bond’s hair and pulled sharply back, and then looked down into cold blue eyes that flashed with sudden anger. “I told you what I want. Are you refusing?”

Bond exhaled, visibly pushing his irritation aside. “No.”

“Then get on with it,” Q said, letting go of Bond’s hair to smooth it back down.

Bond closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Q’s hip before he shifted upright and nudged Q’s shirt out of the way. He kissed Q’s abdomen, teasingly light, and curved one hand around Q’s thigh where the PVC was still smooth and tight. “If you ever wear these to MI6, I’m locking you in your office and shooting anyone who comes near you,” he threatened.

Q smiled to himself, hearing the possessive edge behind Bond’s teasing words. He’d been looking for surrender, but he’d happily take affection as well. “Until you, I’d done admirably well separating work from my personal life.”

Bond’s smirk crossed from possessive to avaricious. He licked his way down until his cheek brushed against Q’s cock, sparking pleasure through his body even at that light touch. Q’s quiet gasp encouraged Bond to rub his face deliberately up again, a contrast between soft skin and rough stubble. Q moved his hands to Bond’s shoulders, letting him set the pace, now that he was focused.

When Bond followed with a slow lick, Q had to force himself to say, “Bond...”

Bond’s irritated huff of warm breath made Q shiver. “I won’t,” he said, though he didn’t immediately continue. He looked up, meeting Q’s eyes as though silently asking for permission.

Q nodded, touching the side of Bond’s face. Taking that as assent, Bond licked again, pressing harder against the underside of Q’s cock. He lifted his hand, steadying Q, and swiped his tongue across the glans. Q almost stopped him, but he licked back down and cupped his hand under Q’s balls, and Q couldn’t find it in him to argue. Bond wasn’t rushing past this the way most of Q’s partners normally would, convinced that what he wanted was the end result. Bond was lavishing attention on him, taking his time to find out what made Q gasp.

By the time Bond finally did roll the condom into place, Q’s fingers were digging into the taut muscles of Bond’s shoulders. As Bond slid his lips down over the glans, Q whispered his name and closed his eyes before the sight could overwhelm his self-control. Bond’s fingers tightened as he slid further down, pressing up with his tongue.

Q exhaled, eyes opening, gaze drawn down to the sight of Bond concentrating, focused wholly on shattering Q’s self-control inch by inch as he worked his way down, far too slowly. With his free hand, Bond shoved Q’s trousers down just enough for him to slip his hand behind Q’s balls. Q tried to spread his legs a bit more without giving in to the temptation to buck his hips forward.

With a soft laugh, Bond pulled back until just the glans was in his mouth. He sucked hard as he brushed a finger over Q’s entrance. The light touch made Q shiver. He looked back down, struggling to focus even with his glasses, and met Bond’s eyes.

“It’s —” He cut off and tried to breathe as Bond repeated the mind-destroying combination of suction and feather-light touching. Losing any grasp of eloquence, Q managed to say, “Yes,” followed by, “more.”

The bastard laughed again and worked down Q’s cock, hard and hot, as he pressed his finger in just enough to light sparks behind Q’s eyes. Q was almost tempted to tell him to stop, to find the lubricant in his other pocket and do this properly, but the sight of his cock disappearing into Bond’s mouth — James Bond, who had probably never before submitted like this in his life — was enough to keep him silent. Next time, he promised himself, determined that there would be a next time, even if he had to convince Bond to defect with him.

Too soon but not soon enough, the building heat started to spark, searing through his body from his cock to his arse, a circuit drawn and completed between Bond’s mouth and finger. Bond was relentless, never giving Q the chance to catch his breath. When Q finally came, it was with an intensity that stole his voice and made him clutch at Bond’s short hair, holding his head still when the friction of his mouth threatened to become too much.

He leaned down, bracing his hands on Bond’s strong shoulders, thinking that if he sat, he might not stand again until tomorrow afternoon. Distantly, he felt Bond remove the condom and carefully smooth the PVC back up over his hips and arse. When he eased Q’s balls and cock back into his trousers, Q bit down on a groan.

He had no idea what to say. Years of one-night stands and scenes and brief relationships that fizzled out and died under the pressure of work — none of it left him prepared for the reality of James Bond’s hands and mouth on his body.


	7. Chapter 7

Q dropped gracelessly into the armchair, convinced he hadn’t managed to conceal the way his legs still shook. Bond pretended not to notice. He didn’t even look up until Q said, “James.” The name felt right on his tongue.

Bond’s eyes were dark, intense, full of the sort of fire that would burn anyone to ash. Had he seen that look from anyone else — any other Double O agent — Q would have been terrified. Now, he just leaned over, bracing his arm across his knees for balance, and stretched out his hand.

Bond set a hand in Q’s and shifted on the carpet, inching closer without looking away from his eyes. “You’ve never called me that before.”

Q considered apologising, but Bond seemed fascinated, not upset. Q pulled him close, the sight of bare skin over hard muscles drawing his gaze down Bond’s body. “You can’t possibly be real,” he said quietly, releasing Bond’s hand to take hold of his shoulders. The foreign sun brought out freckles over his skin, and Q couldn’t help but cover them with his fingertips, letting the spots guide him into drawing random patterns.

With a soft laugh, Bond allowed Q to raise him back onto his knees, abdomen pressed against Q’s right leg. “And which one of you is real, Q?” he asked, resting his hands on Q’s hips, fingers scratching at slick PVC. “If I hadn’t tracked you, would you ever have let me see this?”

“Why would I think you’d want to?” Q asked honestly, dragging Bond closer to kiss his mouth, still red and enticing. Bond’s hands pressed with bruising force over Q’s hipbones as he opened to Q’s demanding tongue. He straightened his arms, supporting his weight over Q’s body as Q sank back against the armchair. The PVC offered no traction on expensive brocade. His arse skittered down, legs splayed forward.

When Q’s thigh pressed suddenly against Bond’s erection, Bond snarled into Q’s mouth.

Q’s hands caught Bond’s hips. He pulled down, bracing his leg between Bond’s, and was rewarded with a groan. “Fucking hell, Q,” Bond said raggedly when Q released the kiss long enough to drag air into his lungs.

In answer, Q shifted, carefully and deliberately pulling his leg back. He couldn’t begin to imagine how the slide of PVC felt, but Bond’s teeth clenched as his eyes shut tightly.

Staring up at Bond in fascination, Q did it again. Bond’s face, usually so cold and hard and stoic, flushed under his tan. His lips parted as he breathed in, and Q leaned up to lick at them.

“Christ, I want —” Bond started, and then stopped himself, staring down at Q. His eyes were wide, icy circles of blue surrounding solid darkness. His fingers dug in hard enough to make Q wince at twin sharp points of pain over his hipbones.

“I’ve got you, James,” Q said, his gentle tone at odds with the way he pulled Bond’s hips down again. Then a thought occurred to him, and he let go with one hand to scrabble in his pocket, writhing under Bond’s body as he tried to slip his fingers between too-tight layers of PVC.

“Q,” Bond complained, the sound more a groan than Q’s name. He mouthed at Q’s throat and worried the skin between his teeth, not quite biting. “In two minutes, I’m going to break this damned armchair.”

The rush of power was dizzying, and Q’s cock started to stir again, sooner than he’d thought possible. “Relax. I’ve got you,” Q repeated soothingly, shifting back before Bond pulled him entirely off the armchair. He pressed a hand down on Bond’s shoulder, encouraging him back down onto the floor, and petted his hair. He finally caught one of the lube packets between two fingers and worked it out of his pocket.

“Fuck,” Bond muttered, resting his forehead against Q’s thigh.

Q braced his hands on the armrest to help settle more properly on the chair. He leaned down, fighting the tension of his waistband, and kissed Bond’s hair, his temple, finally his lips when he lifted his head. Behind Bond’s back, Q ripped the corner off the foil packet.

Bond heard — of course he did — and tensed in surprise. Q kissed him again before he leaned back and squeezed the contents of the packet into his palm. “Come up here, James,” he said quietly.

Bond’s eyes dropped to the clear, shining puddle. A tiny frown creased his brow, and Q saw the calculations flash in his eyes.

“Now,” Q said, a hard edge creeping into his voice. After a blink, as if to clear his thoughts, Bond knelt up, got a foot under himself, and stood, catching his balance with a hand on the back of the armchair.

Q threw the foil wrapper aside and swirled his fingers through the lubricant. Then he ran his fingertips gently over the head of Bond’s cock. Bond exhaled, head hanging down as the tension left his body in a shudder. He adjusted his stance to spread his legs. Q bent one of his own legs back, keeping the other between Bond’s.

Q swiped his fingers across his palm again, and this time curled them around Bond’s cock. Bond snapped off a curse, teeth clicking, and twitched his hips forward, soft skin slipping along Q’s palm.

“Do it again,” Q said, relaxing his fingers until they barely touched.

Bond’s eyes opened, fixing Q with an intense, hungry stare. He rolled his hips forward until Q’s fingers just brushed his balls, the movement teasing, deliberately enticing. “I could do better, with more than just your hand to work with.”

Bond was still too composed. He already had a prediction of how this would go, a map in his head of what he _expected_ would happen. Q had to break through that self-assurance, to push Bond a step closer to submission that was real, not manufactured.

Deliberately, Q lowered his hand and tipped it sideways, watching the lubricant spill onto his thigh, adding another layer of shine to the slick, tight PVC. Bond’s expression went from intent and smug to confused.

Hiding a grin, Q slicked his hand over his thigh, spreading the lubricant all the way down to his knee, and then settled his hands on the armrests. “Prove it. If you impress me, I’ll consider giving you more to work with next time,” he said with confidence he didn’t entirely feel. He was painfully aware of the line between too much and not enough.

Bond stared down at him in disbelief. “I’m not going to —”

“Do it,” Q interrupted.

“Why? It’s —” he began, and then cut off, frowning as he raked Q with another assessing stare as though imagining — remembering — what was under his silk shirt and PVC trousers. “There are far more satisfying things for both of us.”

“But this is what I want you to do,” Q told him, doing a credible job of keeping the nervous edge out of his tone. Inside, he berated himself for pushing, always pushing. He’d never bothered planning scenes; there were always too many variables, even with a familiar partner. But how could he have ever planned for this? He’d come to Bond’s flat to put an end to the stalking, not for this.

“Why?” Bond demanded again, with the sort of tenacity that served him so well in the field.

“Because you need to let go — to give someone else control.” Q’s resolve broke, and he reached up to touch Bond’s face. “This isn’t just about sex, James. It’s about you letting me take care of you.”

Bond closed his eyes, turning his face into the touch. “I don’t need anyone ‘taking care’ of me,” he said too quickly, too harshly.

“In the field, no, you don’t — but you’re not in the field now. You don’t always have to be responsible for everything.”

Bond pulled back, looking at him directly. “It’s who I am.”

“And if someone breaks in with the intent to kill us, I’ll happily cede control to you,” Q said pointedly. “But until then, give me a chance.”

“Why? What do you get out of it?”

Q smiled wryly. He’d been asking himself that for half his life, it seemed, and he’d never found a way to articulate it. “Something no one else has.”

“Me?” Bond laughed bitterly. “You know full well you’re only the most recent in a long line,” he said, his tone razor sharp, meant to draw blood.

But Q saw past the defensive reaction. “Your trust.”

Bond flinched visibly. He pushed away from the chair and turned his back, looking up at the ceiling, shoulders tense. “You have it. I told you that.”

Q’s fingers dug into the upholstered armrests. He almost stood to go to Bond, but he held back. If he chased, Bond would run. This had to be _his_ decision. “When you’re in the field, yes. Let me earn your trust here, as well.”

Bond sighed and stared down at the carpet. He let his hands drop to his sides as he turned and walked back to the armchair. He leaned in close, kissing Q softly. “Can’t you just ask me to kill someone for you instead?” he whispered.

It was heartbreaking that Bond's first thoughts turned to his deadly profession. “I thought you couldn’t turn down a challenge,” Q teased gently, trying to lift his mood.

Bond’s lips twitched. “As if you haven’t been doing enough of that all night.”

“Look at me, Bond. If I didn’t want to challenge you, I would have gone back home to put on comfortable trousers before coming over here.”

Bond’s smile became a bit more genuine as he looked slowly down Q’s body. “Waving a bloody red flag at a bull, those damned trousers,” he complained.

Q deliberately put a hand on his thigh, fingers running over the inseam. “Touch me, Bond. Give me your hand,” he invited.

Bond reached down and let Q take his hand. “I have a perfectly good bed, you know,” he said, watching intently as Q guided Bond’s fingertips down to his leg.

“Don’t speak,” Q said softly, moving his fingertips to the inseam of the trousers. “Just feel.”

Bond let out his breath, some of the tension leaving his body as he allowed Q to guide his hand farther up. When Q nudged at his feet, Bond adjusted his stance absently, spreading his legs for better balance.

Q slowly slid his hand away, letting Bond continue touching on his own. He rested his hands on Bond’s back and pressed gently, easing him closer. Bond didn’t fight; he let Q pull him down. His hand slipped over Q’s cock with just enough pressure to rouse his interest despite his taut-strung nerves.

Q wrapped a hand around the back of Bond’s neck and held him close, arousal stabbing through him at the idle thought that putting a collar on Bond would make this much easier. He kissed Bond until they were both gasping, and he probably left bruises on the back of Bond’s neck, but he didn’t let go. He brought up his other hand instead, teasing his fingers over Bond’s cock, making him hiss in surprise at the touch.

“Move down, Bond,” he said, ending the words with a rough, hard kiss. “I want to feel you.”

This time, Bond made no protest. He braced a knee against the seat of the armchair, between Q’s legs, and kissed him again as he pushed his hips forward. Q moved his hand around to take hold of Bond’s hip, guiding him. Bond’s cock, half-hard, slipped against the lubricant still spread over Q’s thigh, making Bond gasp.

Q caught Bond’s lip between his teeth again and twisted his body, bringing his thigh up again. Bond made a raw, rough sound deep in his throat, sheer frustration, as his hips stuttered forward and then stopped. His muscles locked as he fought the lure of pleasure. He pulled back from Q’s gentle bite, inhaling sharply, nostrils flared.

He closed his eyes, then blinked them open and looked at Q, desperate and questioning. Heart pounding, Q didn’t dare speak. He met Bond’s eyes steadily, trying to silently show his desire and approval.

Bond’s exhale was brusque, a violent pulse of breath over Q’s skin. Then he caught Q’s face gently between his palms and lowered his head. The kiss was soft for only a heartbeat before, with a muffled groan, Bond licked into Q’s mouth and deliberately thrust his cock against Q’s thigh.

Trapped by the kiss and unwilling to break free, Q slipped his hands over Bond’s arse to pull him sharply down again, letting Bond set his own rhythm. Bond gasped in a breath and dropped his hands to steady himself, fingers pressing hard against Q’s hipbones.

Once Bond lost his reticence, his movements became fluid and strong, and thank god Q hadn’t allowed Bond to fuck him tonight, or they might have ended up with their roles reversed. Bond’s breathing turned ragged, and he dropped his head to bite at Q’s neck. Q twisted his fingers in Bond’s hair as best he could but didn’t pull away, instead arching into the sucking bites.

Q bit his lip to keep from speaking whatever came to mind, praise and encouragements and all the things he might say to an obedient sub. He was of two minds about that. Some nights, he felt ridiculous, an actor mouthing trite, poorly written dialogue; others, though, it was hot as fuck. Now, it seemed the third option was even better, the quiet broken only by the ragged sound of Bond’s breathing and the wet, sharp sound of Bond grinding his cock against Q’s thigh, rutting with growing desperation.

When Bond came, it was in silence; even his breath went still as his rhythm faltered. He bit hard into Q’s shoulder with a sharp exhale, arse tensing under Q’s hand. Q relaxed his fingers to comb through Bond’s hair and murmured, “That was perfect, James. Thank you.”

Bond slowly pushed away, looking down evasively. “Your shirt’s ruined.”

“I don’t care.” He watched the tension start to creep back into Bond’s expression, as he’d expected. “Do you mind if I stay?”

Surprised by the request, Bond met his eyes. “That’s fine.”

Q smiled and started to unbutton his shirt. “Am I sleeping on the sofa? I’d rather be in your bed,” he hinted, hoping Bond wouldn’t mind. If left alone, Bond might well end up twisting this around in his mind, putting up walls to ensure it never happened again. He needed reassurance, not isolation, but even a hint of conventional aftercare would probably be all Bond needed to hide behind his stoic, self-assured armour once more.

“I offered that earlier,” Bond said, turning away to pick up the holstered Walther. Only when he had the weapon in hand did he make any effort at gathering his clothes.

Q used the ruined shirt to clean up his trousers and the upholstery as best he could while trying to be subtle about watching Bond. He was tense, his movements stiff. Instead of leaving the living room, he went to check each window and the balcony door first, and then to the foyer to check the front door. Q balled up his shirt and quietly went to the kitchen to throw it in the rubbish bin.

He followed Bond into the bedroom, which proved to be furnished in the same expensive fashion, devoid of personality, as the living room. “Take whichever side you like,” Bond said, tossing his clothes onto the bench at the foot of the bed before he crossed to the bathroom and closed the door.

Q sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands across his face. The night had gone nothing like how he’d planned. It was better, yes, but in a terrifying sort of way. This type of excitement was usually reserved for bomb removal personnel, not him.

He finally stood back up and got rid of his boots. The trousers required a bit of effort to remove and would need more attention than he could spare right now. He hoped Bond had something that wouldn’t fit too poorly, or he’d end up going home in a borrowed dressing gown and his coat. Or maybe he could just send Bond to get spare clothes. He had a key, after all.

Which reminded him... He took off his watch and examined it, finding no scratches beyond normal, familiar wear and tear. He’d look at it more closely in the lab on Monday. For now, he put it on the bedside table.

When Bond came out of the bathroom, cleaned up and still beautifully naked, Q took his place. Politely, Bond had set out a fresh toothbrush on top of a folded towel. Q cleaned up quickly, though not without a longing look at a decadently large shower — he’d save that for tomorrow morning — and hurried back out to the bed. Bond was on his back, with the light on his side of the bed turned off. As he passed, Q looked closely at the table on Bond’s side but saw no sign of the Walther. Hopefully Bond hadn’t shoved it under a pillow.

Q put his glasses down by his watch and turned off his light, leaving the room in near total darkness. He got under the covers and moved as close to the centre of the bed as he could. “Come here,” he invited.

Bond rolled from his back to his side, though he carefully left an inch or so of distance between them. “You should sleep.”

“ _We_ should sleep,” Q corrected, closing the gap. He put his arm around Bond’s shoulders and tried to pull him down.

After a moment, Bond gave in and rested his head on the pillow beside Q’s. He tentatively moved his hand to Q’s chest. “You don’t —”

“James,” Q interrupted softly. He rolled over and slid his leg over Bond’s, shifting to hold him as close as possible. “Tonight’s been a lot for both of us. Rest, now. We’ll talk tomorrow.”


	8. Chapter 8

Most days, Q awoke slowly and lazily, creeping back to consciousness by inches. He tended to push the limits of both body and mind until he was dizzy from exhaustion. Then he’d crash for twelve hours, usually coding in his sleep, and upon waking, he’d roll over to grab for his laptop and glasses before bothering to brush his teeth, just so he could get the night’s ideas recorded.

All too rarely, he woke to find a body pressed against his or sprawled at his side or stealing the blankets. This time, Q awoke to the feeling of being suffocated by an octopus who’d taken up weight lifting as a hobby.

“You’re awake.”

The deep, growling voice slammed adrenaline into Q’s system. _Bond_. Dear god, he’d actually spent the night — and what they’d done _last night_ —

“I can nearly hear your heart, it’s beating so hard,” Bond said, amused, as his hand roamed possessively down Q’s chest. His leg was over Q’s, holding his body trapped possessively close. “Are you excited in a good way, or is this where we have a morning-after talk that’s full of regret and awkwardness? Because if so, I’ll need something stronger than tea for that.”

Viciously hating the way his body betrayed his thoughts, Q took a deliberate, calming breath. “I realise one of us is accustomed to waking with assassins in his bed, but this is a very different experience for me, Bond.”

Bond laughed, and the sound helped calm Q’s fears a bit. Apparently, neither of them was interested in an aftermath breakdown. He leaned in close to Q’s ear, face pressed against bed-tangled hair. His breath smelled faintly of mint, which implied he’d already been up and wandering about. “Are you going to the office today?”

“That’s a disgustingly domestic thing to ask.” Q inched back, nerves lighting up as his body confirmed that no, Bond _wasn’t_ wearing a damned thing. Which made him recall... “ Besides, I really don’t enjoy my job enough to go in naked. I’ll need to borrow something from you.”

“I don’t think so, if it means I can keep you here instead.” Bond’s hand slid down to Q’s hip, bracing him against a slow, deliberate push of hips. Bond’s half-hard cock fitted perfectly against the curve of Q’s arse. Definitely no morning-after crisis here.

A bit reluctantly, Q twisted away so he could roll onto his back. “A compromise, then,” he offered, watching as Bond propped up on one shoulder to smile fondly down at him. Q couldn’t help wondering if Bond’s eyes, usually so hard and cold, had always had such warmth hidden deep inside, or if this was something new, something for which he could take credit.

“What compromise?” Bond asked, his free hand sliding up Q’s belly, ticklish and light, making him flinch.

“Stop that,” he tried to stay sternly, though it came out with a choked laugh behind the words. He caught at Bond’s wrist and twisted away, saying, “We have a civilised discussion over tea. _Then_ we can figure out how I’m going to eventually get home without an arrest for public indecency.”

“A civilised discussion.” Bond gave up trying to hold Q at his side.

“It’s two people talking, Bond. It’s perfectly normal,” Q said, sliding reluctantly out from under the blankets. He found his glasses and put them on, looking around as the room came sharply into focus. The only light was from Bond’s side of the bed; the curtains were lined and thick enough to keep out any hint of the outside sky.

Ignoring Bond’s grumbling, Q went to the bathroom. This might not have been the most surreal experience of his life, but it was definitely up there on the list. _Minefield_. His mind kept repeating that one word, a precautionary chant that really was less helpful than it should have been.

He cleaned up quickly, trying to sort out in his head where they should start and what he should say. He spent far too long raking wet hands through his hair, trying to tame it so he looked less like Medusa and more like himself, until he recognised the effort as a poorly disguised attempt to delay the inevitable.

Back in the bedroom, he found Bond sprawled lazily against stacked pillows. There was a steaming mug on Q’s bedside table, and Q’s smile turned affectionate. Bond must have made tea before waking Q. Was he always so thoughtful to his lovers? Probably. At least, Q had never heard any complaints from the women who’d occasionally come to the office on a Monday morning, hinting at how they’d spent their weekends.

He got back in bed, holding the hot tea carefully, and breathed in the steam. When he caught the floral scent of bergamot, he gave Bond a quick, curious look. Had Bond remembered that one offhand comment Q had made at their first meeting, months ago, or did he prefer tea with a bit more flavour than plain black?

“So, last night,” Q began, bracing his feet up on the bed so he could rest the mug on one knee. The blanket was thick enough to insulate his skin from the heat. “I —”

“I expected something like that,” Bond interrupted.

Q’s thoughts scattered. “You did?” he asked, glancing at Bond, who was smirking at him.

“I realise what you back-office personnel think of field agents, but I am capable of researching my target,” Bond said teasingly, his grin positively smug now.

“Your target,” Q repeated, arching a brow at him. “Are we back to a scenario in which you’re infiltrating my personal life at M’s orders so you can assess my security clearance risks or loyalty?”

“Were we operating on that scenario?” Bond asked. “I missed it, if we were.”

“Well really, why _else_ would you have followed me to my nightclub?”

Bond turned to lean his shoulder against the pillows, facing Q. He put his hand on the back of Q’s wrist and dragged his fingers up, watching the way Q shivered under the light touch. “Must it always be about work? Can’t it be personal?”

Q looked down at Bond’s fingers and licked dry lips, trying to reshuffle his thoughts into a new configuration. He’d sensed Bond’s attraction, but had thought it buried deep — not something Bond consciously knew and accepted. And then, after Bond’s behaviour had seemed to reach an odd plateau stretched between friendship and desire, Q had assumed —

Ah. Of course, that was the problem. He was assuming that Bond wanted him

“And now that your curiosity has been satisfied?” Q asked calmly. “I think we can both be professionals about this and not allow it to affect our working relationship.”

Bond’s eyes narrowed. His fingers crested Q’s shoulder and moved up to tease over the ends of his hair. “By chance, are your next words something along the lines of ‘we’ll never mention it again’?”

Q twitched guiltily; he’d been thinking just that. It was the coward’s way out, but he didn’t want to lose what little connection he’d built with Bond by complicating things with emotional entanglements. Bond wasn’t the type to get into a relationship — not after what he’d said about being betrayed by a woman six years ago.

Really, a one-night stand with Bond was more than Q had ever expected. He’d even accept a repeat, at least for as long as he could keep his emotions in check. Inevitably, Bond would find out about Q’s growing affection and that would be the end of it, but until then, this was enough. It had to be enough.

So Q stayed silent, letting Bond’s thoughts wander where they would. After a moment, Bond nodded. “Very well,” he said quietly, tracing the curve of Q’s ear with one fingertip. “Though it does lessen your chances of acquiring clothing at all this weekend. I work best under the pressure of a deadline,” he said, brushing his fingers down to Q’s throat.

One night was better than nothing, Q told himself, and one weekend was definitely better than one night.

 

~~~

 

As it turned out, Bond was an excellent cook, for a lifelong bachelor. Wrapped in a warm dressing gown Bond had grudgingly offered, Q sipped tea, idly browsed his personal mobile to update himself on the world’s happenings, and watched as Bond negligently tossed ingredients and spices into a pan and produced not just omelets but a delicate sauce and perfectly cooked bacon. Eating at an actual table was a novelty for Q, who most often ended up at his computer desk or hunched over the coffee table, switching between a fork and his precision tools.

They ate in silence that was surprisingly comfortable. Q’s mind wandered as always, but every now and then, he’d glance at Bond, wearing nothing but another pair of silk boxer-briefs, and he’d lose track of whatever he was coding or building or planning in his head. Q kept staring at the freckles over his shoulders and chest.

As soon as Q set down his fork, Bond shoved his chair back and said, “I’d like a shower. You’re welcome to share or watch, whichever you’d prefer.”

“What a terrible array of options,” Q said, abandoning his planned offer to do the dishes. He followed Bond into the bathroom instead, dropping the dressing gown on the corner of the bed as he passed.

In the bathroom, Bond started the water running and then turned, staring at Q. “I never would have thought you the immodest type,” he said, reaching out to pull Q into his arms. Q hesitated only long enough to put his glasses on the counter.

Thinking of freckles, Q pressed his lips to Bond’s shoulder and said, “I was thrown into university dorms when I was fifteen, Bond. After two years of sneaking through the halls at four in the morning and hiding in layers of towels, I finally stopped giving a damn.”

Bond’s hands ran possessively up Q’s back as he rubbed his face against Q’s hair. “So young.”

“Advanced placement was the only way I could not be bored at school,” Q admitted awkwardly. “Not all of us can have prestigious military careers, you know.”

“Snooping through my files.” Bond touched Q’s chin to turn his face. His kiss was gentle, a brush of lips and tongue.

“Commander Bond,” Q said thoughtfully. He dropped his hands to Bond’s waist, thinking this would be an excellent time to rid him of the boxer-briefs. “I’m surprised you don’t still use the title.”

“I do, when it suits me.” Obligingly, Bond helped, and kicked the silk away. He stepped back, pulling Q into the shower with him, and turned to get Q under one of the streams of water. Q sighed at the warmth and tipped his head back, eyes closed. Bond’s fingers followed the trails of water running down Q’s chest. “Christ, you look even younger, soaking wet.”

“Don’t start,” Q said, though he couldn’t quite summon up any real irritation in his voice. Between the hot water and Bond’s hands on his body, he didn’t think he’d ever be irritated again — or at least not until Monday morning, when this all ended. “If you don’t like what you’re seeing, you can always turn around.”

Bond’s hands flattened on Q’s chest, sliding around to his back. “Or you could,” he suggested, hands dropping lower, over the curve of Q’s arse.

Q considered protesting, though it was a token effort at best. The memory of waking with Bond’s chest pressed to his back, arms circling his body, was too enticing, so he turned and leaned his head back out of the spray of water.

Bond went still as though surprised by Q’s acquiescence, and Q felt a momentary twinge of guilt. He _really_ needed to be talking this out with Bond, not fumbling his way through, botching things at every step, but the longer he waited, the worse it seemed to play out in his head.

Then Bond reached up past Q and adjusted the showerhead more comfortably before he went back to exploring Q’s body. He had a talent for discovering every spot that was sensitive or ticklish until Q was squirming against him. He finally flattened his hands against the marble wall to keep from pinning Bond’s wrists long enough for Q to catch his breath.

Q dropped his head between his arms and shook the wet hair out of his eyes. “Bond...”

“Something the matter?” he asked, resting his left hand on Q’s hip. He dropped his right hand to the back of Q’s thigh.

“Are you always this playful?” Q asked, shuffling his feet back and apart. He bent his knees and rolled his spine, deliberately pressing his arse back against Bond’s cock. Bond hissed in a startled breath and dug his fingers against Q’s hip, making Q snap, “Ow!” when Bond found last night’s bruises.

Immediately, Bond let go and backed off. “What happened?”

“It’s fine.” Q looked down, gingerly touching the dark bruises that followed the sharp line of his hipbones. “Really —”

“Idiot,” Bond accused, taking Q by the shoulders and turning him around, blinding him momentarily with his own wet hair. “Bloody hell, Q.”

Q shoved the hair out of his eyes and shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said, escaping the spray by getting close to Bond again. “I bruise easily, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

Bond stepped back to glare at the offending bruises before he pulled Q into his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m usually much more careful.”

“I’m not going to break,” Q snapped. “I thought after last night you’d realised that much about me.”

“Sorry,” Bond muttered again. He leaned in and kissed Q as he had before, soft and gentle, and for a moment, the spark between them flared again, but only to a point. Bond’s hands stayed on Q’s back, fingers moving in little circles meant to soothe, and Bond had shifted his weight back just enough that their bodies touched only lightly.

Silently, Q tried to reassure Bond, though privately he was a touch offended. He was tall but had always been wiry, no matter how he tried to put on weight, and as much as he envied Bond’s gorgeously sculpted body, he couldn’t help thinking the effort to get to that point seemed unbelievably dull. Still, being slender didn’t mean he was fragile.

Bond finally moved his hands down again, though he stopped at the small of Q’s back. His kisses remained gentle, teasing licks and soft brushes, moving from Q’s lips along his jaw to the spot below his ear that never failed to light fires deep inside — until now. Now, it just fell flat, seeming no more than a mechanical action rather than the promise-filled caress it should have been.

Hiding his sudden anxiety, Q finally broke the embrace as naturally as he could. He looked around, spotted an array of soaps and shampoos, and turned to decipher the bottles, giving Bond a moment to... to do whatever he needed to do. Regain his composure. Figure out what he wanted. For now, at least the water was still hot and the soap didn’t smell like flowers, which was a hazard of one-night stands.

Finally, some of the awkwardness faded under the lure of soapy hands, as polite offers to wash unreachable spots turned into exploration, but it was all slightly... _off_. By the time there was nothing left to wash and no good excuse to linger, Q was relieved and utterly _not_ aroused. He escaped the shower and wrapped up in towels, wondering if the PVC trousers were really in such bad shape. Covered with his coat, the damage wouldn’t be very visible.

He went out into the bedroom and found his trousers in a messy heap on the carpet. He sat down on the edge of the bed and picked them up, emptying the pockets without thought: condoms, lubricant, the key to his flat, and a single emergency credit card hidden under a few bills, the whole lot paperclipped together.

Before he could start assessing the damage, Bond came out of the bathroom, distractingly wearing nothing but the steam that followed him out through the door he left open. He glanced at everything Q had piled beside him, and his eyes took on a new light. In four confident strides, he crossed the carpet to stand with one leg slotted between Q’s, reminiscent of last night, and leaned down to kiss Q with all the heat that had been missing in the shower.

The mixed signals were driving Q mad. Had Bond finally figured out what he wanted, or was this going to be another false start?

He could stop this, right now. He could shut this all down and walk away with at least something like their professional relationship intact. And he was a damned fool, because he didn’t want to — not at all. He dropped the PVC trousers aside and caught Bond’s face, arching up to meet the kiss with enthusiasm, however unwise.

Bond gave himself over to the kiss, hands braced against the mattress to either side of Q’s hips. When Q backed away to pull in a breath, Bond mouthed at his throat, saying, “You should have said something. Did you really think I wouldn’t have supplies in the bathroom?”

For one moment, Q had no idea what Bond was talking about. Then he remembered emptying his pockets about a hundred years ago, on the other side of a kiss that still had his lips tingling. Clearly, Bond had picked up on Q’s awkwardness, but was still unclear about the reason for it, if he was thinking it had to do with condoms and lubricant.

Q gave up trying to think of a way to explain. If he was going to be here for the weekend, then he was going to _stay_ for the whole damned weekend, and he might as well enjoy it. Q tugged open the towel wrapped around his hips, scooted back onto the endless mattress, and laid down on the twisted, tangled bedding.

Bond followed, keeping his lips on Q’s skin more often than not, crawling over him like a predator who’d just taken down a deer and was wondering where to place the first bite. Q shivered at the thought — he had a very good imagination, and vanilla sex always made his mind wander towards bad poetic imagery.

Unaware of Q’s odd turn of thought, Bond made his way down to a nipple and licked. Q exhaled, tingles spreading through his chest, and stroked a hand through Bond’s hair to encourage him. Taking the hint, Bond caught the nipple between his lips with enough pressure to turn the tingling to a deep warmth.

Then Bond broke the silence, licking once more before speaking without lifting his lips from Q’s skin. “What do you want?”

“What do _you_ want?” Q countered. The riposte came to him naturally, though it was horrifically juvenile, reminding him of giggling arguments that devolved into ‘you tell me’ and ‘no, you first’. Unfortunately, this seemed to call for a binary solution — take control, cede control — and as Bond had suggested last night, Q had already had his turn.

Bond’s head came up to fix Q with an expression that flashed from baffled to suspicious to guardedly, stoically neutral in a handful of seconds. “At least do me the courtesy of telling me whatever new rules I’m supposed to be following, Q.”

“What? No new rules,” Q answered, getting his elbows onto the bed so he could brace upright without straining.

Bond crouched back, arse pressed to Q’s thighs, legs folded against Q’s hips. “Then —” he began, but shut his mouth, lips pressing tightly together.

Abruptly, the tide of arousal vanished, sucked into a whirlpool of empty, icy black. “Bond,” he said quietly, unable to speak his first name.

Bond twisted with deadly grace and left the bed. “I’ll find you something you can wear.”

 

~~~

 

In the taxi, Q wore tracksuit bottoms and ankle boots, an old Royal Navy T-shirt and a long black coat with silver buckles. He felt torn between too many facets of himself, broken apart until a divide-by-zero error left him stalled, waiting for some external force to impose order on him.

He hadn’t tried talking to Bond before he’d left — not beyond the minimum, ‘thanks for the clothes’ and ‘a taxi is fine’ and even a weak ‘see you at work’ before he went out into the posh, impersonal hallway and took the lift down, carrying his PVC trousers in a grocery bag.

Now, back home, he threw the bag into the kitchen, kicked his boots after them, and left the coat in a puddle in the hallway. He went to his bed and ripped off the covers he’d smoothed down so neatly just last night, thinking the flat should be presentable in case he’d found company to bring home. Then he threw himself onto the mattress, wearing Bond’s T-shirt and Bond’s tracksuit bottoms, and he wrapped up in the blankets, trying not to think about what the hell had happened.

He should have gone to the club. He would’ve found someone, most likely. It would’ve been a little exciting, a little relaxing, and he would’ve been done with her or him or them by around two or three. The morning would’ve started with tea and his deployable weapons platform, if he felt like working, or with his therapy-bot. Toast for breakfast instead of a perfect omelet, takeaway for lunch, and now he’d be thinking about going out again tonight or going back to the office.

 _The office_.

As soon as he thought about it — the sterile white and brilliant fluorescent lighting, the hum of computer fans and ventilation fans — he _needed_ it. His domain. His.

Ten minutes later, he left the flat wearing slightly baggy slacks and brogues, and if he still wore Bond’s T-shirt under his button-down shirt and cardigan, it was surely only because he kept his lab cold.

 

~~~

 

It took twenty minutes to disassemble his watch and find the tracking device. Bond must have installed it himself. It wasn’t even hidden in the mechanisms, and the wires were press-fitted to the tiny watch battery, not soldered out of sight. Bond wouldn’t have had the skill to do the micro-fine work, and while he did have the authority to order (intimidate) one of the techs to do it for him, he’d chosen to do this himself. That much was obvious.

Q had no idea how to feel about that.

He took the tracker out, and then, because he did such things for practice, he removed the battery and soldered the wires in place. He held up the tiny tracker, examining it under a magnifying lamp. It was one of his, naturally, a masterpiece of miniaturisation and efficiency, without a wasted millimetre of space and no chance of overheating or shorting. It would last for months with this particular battery providing power both to it and to a watch. When not installed in the watch, it would last for years.

Carefully, Q fitted the pieces of his watch back into place. The machined steel components interlocked with soothing precision; Q appreciated the physical embodiment of order, finding it just as beautiful as more conventional masterworks of art.

Then he rested the tracking device on the back of his mobile — his work mobile, a piece of pre- _him_ electronics, once commercial-grade but then enhanced, first by the factory in response to a government contract, and later by his own division. The mobile represented one of his pet peeves, and he thought again about arguing with M over reallocating funds to have a proper secure mobile designed. This particular model was a hack-job at best, one that Q’s predecessor had sold to M’s predecessor with buzzwords and pie charts.

From his workbench, Q retrieved a piece of fine surgical-grade cling-film. The stuff had a wickedly powerful adhesive and would form a waterproof seal. Gently, Q covered the tracking device, still attached to the tiny battery, sealing it to his work mobile. The lump was noticeable but didn’t interfere with holstering the phone, and the surgical tape would stick through almost anything.

Automatically, Q looked at his watch, wondering for a moment when midnight had rolled around. Then he noted the stillness of the second hand, and he pursed his lips in irritation as he left the lab. He’d have to find somewhere to buy a replacement battery.


	9. Chapter 9

Twenty-nine days.

Q wrapped himself in bland clothing and lived behind his glasses and computer screens and slept every other night on his office sofa, secure from everyone — even the bloody queen herself — behind XCOM-grade security protocols that left his office an impenetrable fortress of isolation, both physical and electronic.

Behind XCOM’s electromagnetic shielding, the tracking device that was still taped to the back of Q’s work mobile was dormant.

On day twenty-nine, Bond was at the Ramon Crater, deep in the Negev desert, and Q was tasked to provide satellite intel for the joint MI6-Mossad operation, coordinating with his counterpart somewhere in Israel — Tel Aviv, he guessed. He pirated intel off an American satellite and distributed it to the strike team. Then he eavesdropped on their comms through the rest of the op until the very end, when Bond separated the one British ex-pat from the cell, leaving the others to be interrogated and eliminated.

Their interaction was as it always had been — professional and smooth — and yet it wasn’t. After the capture was confirmed, Q didn’t switch to the next highest priority, 009’s operation in Paris. He routed those signals to one of his more trustworthy underlings, telling himself it was for the sake of the paperwork. Easier for one person to fill out the report, rather than passing it off halfway through.

Ten minutes later, he listened to the smooth, baritone roll of Hebrew, and heard the answering laugh, feminine and knowing, and he told himself it didn’t matter.

Field agents, he reminded himself, never changed.

 

~~~

 

Precisely six weeks after walking out of Bond’s flat on a rainy Saturday morning, Q was engaged in a friendly-yet-vicious competition with some clever little bastard trying to break into MI6’s systems. He’d made it past the first firewalls, which meant he was good, and while there were security protocols meant to handle this sort of thing, Q had decided to throw up additional obstacles. He was always looking for new recruits, and MI6 had an odd fetish for hiring people with criminal records.

When the door to his office slammed abruptly open, he broke his connection with a quick command and jumped to his feet, heart pounding. _Technically_ he should’ve reported the electronic security breach — everyone was paranoid, after the Silva incident — but Q had the entire situation under control.

But it was Bond who walked in, not anyone from IT Security or, worse, M’s executive branch. In the week and a half Bond had been back from Israel, Q had seen him in passing exactly twice. He was offensively perfect as always in his tailored suit that just hinted at straining over too-broad shoulders. He’d tanned in Israel, and it hadn’t faded much.

“Whatever you need, you’ll have to fill out a requisition form if you please, 007,” Q said with professional detachment, sitting back down at his desk. He turned his attention back to wrangling the hacker, though he was all too aware of Bond’s presence in his office, stealing the air and light and Q’s thoughts like a walking gravitational anomaly.

“Your office is on the XCOM list,” Bond said, his voice cold and impersonal. He slammed the door shut.

Q looked up in surprise. “Yes. Of course it is,” he said, though it was admittedly a recent addition. The previous regime had thought only M’s own office and two conference rooms merited the very expensive security precautions. Fortunately, the current M was a bit more reasonable, at least in some matters.

Bond walked towards Q’s desk, arching a brow expectantly. “Well?”

Wondering if the Israelis had passed something of interest, Q turned to the wall console. Biometrics, password, voice identification — once all checks were complete, he engaged XCOM and listened to the sound of the air conditioning turning off as the vents closed. Solenoid locks engaged at the door. White noise generators came on, teasing the edge of his hearing with the distant sound of static.

Once the system was fully engaged, he spun his chair back around. “Well?” he repeated.

Instead of placing some technological prize on Q’s desk, Bond walked around the side, his steps slower now. Measured. His expression was that blank mask that he adopted when hiding his thoughts, denying Q even the least hint of what was going on.

Too late, it occurred to Q that this might be bad. Monumentally bad, in fact. Earning Top Secret or higher status was no guarantee of mental stability; in the case of field operatives, quite the opposite. The psychological stresses they endured were enormous, and a good number of the ones who survived field ops ended up taking their own lives — or making a more dramatic statement.

Bond circled behind the desk, looking down in Q’s direction but not looking _at_ him. His last step faltered, just a shuffle of his foot on the tile floor.

Then he lowered himself to kneel beside Q’s chair, giving the armrest a push to turn the seat another two inches, allowing him to rest his head on Q’s thigh.

“Bond?” Q asked quietly, fingers clenching around the armrests, white-knuckled, as every instinct in him screamed to touch.

Bond’s breath warmed Q’s skin through his trousers. “You are _infuriating_ ,” he murmured without lifting his head.

One hand slipped just enough for Q to feel short, sun-gold hair under his fingertips. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words breaking from him without conscious control. His hand cupped Bond’s head as guilt twisted through his chest like a knife. “I’m so sorry, Bond.”

With a sigh, Bond moved his hands to touch Q’s legs. His fingers seemed to sear right through Q’s trousers and into his skin. “I pushed you away. You _let_ me push you away,” Bond said, lifting his head just enough to press against Q’s touch. “Couldn’t you —” he began, and then tried, “ _You_ knew what I — even if I didn’t —” before he stopped and huffed in frustration.

Q’s fingers carded through Bond’s hair, pressing his head back down. It should have felt wrong, here in his office at MI6, but all that mattered was them. Who, not where.

“You’re not a hound,” Q said softly. “You can’t be leashed, James. That’s not who you are.”

Bond took a breath. His eyes closed for a moment. “And... if it’s what I want?”

Q smiled faintly. “It’s not what you need.” He tugged gently on Bond’s hair to lift his head and leaned down, kissing his face, his eyebrows, his cheek, the half-day’s growth of light, greying stubble along his jaw. Bond’s shoulders relaxed, tension bleeding from his body under Q’s touch. “I can’t _take_ anything from you. Not unless you allow it.”

Bond sighed and nodded, resting his forehead against Q’s. Then he shifted, almost curling up against Q’s leg, and lowered his head again, saying, “I need to try.”

The wording wasn’t lost on Q. He gave in and touched, resting one hand on the back of Bond’s neck, lightly tracing the sun-bronzed lines of his face with the other. “Is it what you want?”

Rather than answering immediately, Bond hesitated before saying, “I found someone else. It... went badly.”

“What?” he asked before his hands stilled under the force of jealous rage that surged through him, so uncharacteristic and powerful that it left him breathless.

“I’ve been to three different countries in the last six weeks, Q. You’re not the only... one who does... that,” he said awkwardly.

The thought of James Bond, infamous for shagging his way through missions the world over, being too shy to actually _discuss_ kinky sex was amusing enough that Q’s jealousy receded. If Bond couldn’t even say it to Q, after all they’d done together, surely he wouldn’t have got too far with actually _trying_ anything.

“What happened?” he asked as his fingers started moving again.

Bond made a frustrated noise. “Blame overtraining,” he said uncomfortably. “I wasn’t actually _arrested,_ but I think that’s because they were too scared to call the local police.”

Q sighed and tried not to laugh at the images his mind created. “So, no one... You _didn’t_ with anyone.”

“No.” Bond shifted back up to his knees and finally met Q’s eyes again. “I didn’t trust any of them. After what you said — I should have realised —”

“You couldn’t have known,” Q interrupted, cupping Bond’s face to pull him up for another kiss, a proper one this time. Six weeks of hurt and loneliness and self-loathing started to thaw, just around the edges. And then, because he was honest to a fault, he added, “You have no reason to trust me, though. It’s obvious I didn’t give you what you needed — _or_ wanted, for that matter.”

“I gave you my trust, and you _didn’t_ betray me,” Bond said, taking hold of the edges of the seat to pull Q a little closer.

“I left,” Q said, another shard of ice falling away. Hope, he realised, hurt like a knife wound, but if this ended with something other than tense, professional distance between them, he’d happily bleed himself dry.

“For a genius, you’re a bloody idiot.” Bond rested his hands on Q’s thighs, fingers digging into soft wool. “You left. So come back.”

A tiny laugh escaped Q as he stared into Bond’s eyes. “Is it really that simple?”

“No. I’m just saying that because I’ve nothing better to do,” Bond said dryly. “I thought about taking the week’s vacation I’m about to lose, only I decided I’d rather come in here and test your security systems than go down to Greece or the Caribbean.”

Q arched a brow, resisting the ridiculous urge to grin. “Well, as you can see the XCOM system is working flawlessly. If you hurry, you can probably catch a flight.”

Bond laughed. “Only if you’ll come with me, Q,” he said, his voice thick with affection.

Surrendering to the grin, Q countered, “If we’re to do this properly, it’s ‘sir’.”

Bond’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “What? Absolutely bloody not!”

“Well not _here,_ at the office. But when we’re alone and —”

“I’m a commander in the Royal Navy, you puppy! I am _not_ calling you ‘sir’!” Bond snapped.

Q laughed and pressed a hand to the back of Bond’s skull, pulling him close for a kiss that was hard and hot. He bit and licked and felt Bond’s hands go tight on his legs, tight enough to dig bruises into the muscles. And when they were both trembling and gasping, Q said, “You’re impossible, James.”

Bond wrapped his arms around Q and rested his head on his shoulder. “And you have a ridiculous haircut. I’m not even _considering_ ‘sir’ unless you do something about it,” he muttered against Q’s neck.

“We’ll discuss it,” Q said, thinking this was the strangest negotiation he’d ever had, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. “I’ve never been to Greece.”

“You’ll love it. There’s hardly any reason at all to wear clothes, if the season’s right.”

“I won’t fly.”

“Royal Navy,” Bond reminded him. “I’ll steal a boat. If you’ll come with me, that is...”

“Yes.” Q kissed him again, this time carefully and thoroughly, as if he had all the time in the world to explore Bond’s mouth.

When he backed away, Bond opened his eyes, pupils wide and dark. “Tell M you’re leaving now. And if he bothers us before the end of next week —”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” Q promised. “You’re mine, for an entire week.”

Bond smiled, for the first time seeming entirely at peace with the world. “Make it two. I don’t want to rush any of it.”


	10. Chapter 10

In the end, Bond managed not to add another count of piracy or hijacking to his list of offences. Instead he drove, a marathon trip of two days with only brief stops when sleep became absolutely necessary.

Bond was a different person outside MI6 and the mission parameters that usually directed his trips overseas. He was still driven, fiercely determined to get to their destination as quickly as possible, and once they crossed out of Austria, he fell into prolonged periods of silence. Occasionally, he’d mutter a number or a name, and Q would look them up on the ultralight laptop he’d brought along for the trip. Missions. Targets. Q hadn’t considered that they’d be passing through territory where Bond had worked, and Q stayed awake half that night to interrupt any nightmares. There were none, though, and the following morning, Bond woke Q at an ungodly early hour with the lure of tea and breakfast.

(Bond had, as it turned out, packed a stash of some ridiculously expensive Earl Grey blend, along with an electric kettle, and as Q had drank a cup that first morning in France, he’d wondered if this had ever been just about sex, or if it had always been something more.)

“Greece,” Bond said into the silence of the car.

Q looked up from his laptop. “How can you tell?” he asked, trying to distinguish this too-narrow back road from every other too-narrow back road they’d taken. Bond seemed to have an aversion to proper highways, at least once they’d left Germany, and twice now, they’d been forced to stop and wait for sheep of all things. On the road.

Bond laughed. “Go on, then. Verify,” he said, taking one hand off the wheel to gesture at the laptop.

Q ignored the little stab of anxiety and firmly reminded himself that Bond was a perfectly safe driver, if not a _sane_ one. That thought tugged at his memory, and as he opened a secure, anonymous browser, he let his mind wander. If it was important, he’d remember.

They were both entirely off the grid. Bond had swept everything for tracking devices — their clothes, luggage, and the car — while Q had disassembled every piece of electronics they carried. He had briefly worried about a money trail, but Bond had solved that by opening a safe at his flat and tossing an obscene amount of cash onto the desk.

Q finally managed to infiltrate the local mobile network and locate the laptop, and yes, they were precisely two miles over the Greek border. “Well, you’re right —” he began, and then looked sharply at Bond as the thoughts of _safe_ and _sane_ naturally led to _consensual_. He thought back to Bond’s brief mention of his near-miss with the police, wherever he’d been.

Bond had seduced his way across the world, but he’d never _negotiated_ a scene before. He probably didn’t realise it was necessary at all.

Q turned to regard Bond’s profile, smiling fondly. “You’re an idiot.”

Bond glanced at him, brows raised. “You incurable romantic.”

“You said I shouldn’t be concerned about your limits,” Q said, closing the laptop with a snap. Bond looked over at him again, surprised; Q hadn’t actually put the laptop away except when he wanted to doze off.

“Well —”

“No. No, in fact, you’re a _colossal_ idiot. I’ve seen your psychological evaluation, Bond.”

Bond huffed in a show of anger that Q didn’t believe for a second. “You wouldn’t intentionally do anything...” He went silent for a moment, considering his words. “I don’t know. _Painful_.”

“But I could,” Q said, secretly thrilled at the show of trust. “If we discussed it beforehand — if we negotiated properly — I _would_.”

Bond’s expression shuttered, falling into a blank mask for a second, and Q could almost predict the paths his thoughts were taking.

The road was narrow and beautiful, winding through hills that would be the perfect backdrop for a spectacular fiery crash. “Stop the car,” Q said, wondering if _anything_ about their relationship would ever be normal. A part of him hoped not.

Bond scanned ahead, eyes narrowed, and nodded. He drove another minute before he crossed the empty space meant for oncoming traffic and edged the Audi onto the dirt at the edge of a field. “The road’s not so deserted that we won’t get caught, if you’re having ideas about the great outdoors,” he warned, though his grin told Q that he wouldn’t mind getting arrested again, if the reason was good enough. That was, in a strange way, flattering.

“Ah. Right,” Q said. “Regarding your previous near-arrest... Your attempt to experiment —”

“You wanted to stop to _talk?_ ” Bond shut off the engine and leaned his forearm against the back of Q’s seat, fingers teasing over his hair. “We can talk back in England.”

Q reached up and untangled Bond’s fingers to hold his hand instead. “Just tell me if I’m right. You went to a fetish club, or a nightclub with those leanings, like mine,” Q said, watching as Bond’s eyes flickered with surprise before his expression fell back into that characteristic mask of neutrality. “Probably bribed a concierge to tell you where to go — more expedient that way.”

“You really haven’t traveled,” Bond said, amused. “Just because I’d never bothered before doesn’t mean I don’t know where to look.”

“Wonderful. You didn’t even have that much guidance,” Q said wryly. “But you went anyway. God knows what you were wearing, but just look at you. You could be wearing Primark’s finest, and you’d still turn heads. I’d imagine it was easy enough to find someone interested. Man or woman?”

“Does it matter?”

Q shrugged. “A woman, then. Not less threatening, given how many women have tried to kill you, but more familiar. You were probably treating this as an intelligence-gathering operation.”

Bond shrugged, a hint of a smirk in his eyes. “Wasn’t it?”

“Fair enough,” Q conceded. “I’d like to think _she_ had this discussion with you, but I don’t think she did. You probably chose the first partner who caught your eye, and didn’t bother with much talk. How long before it all went badly? Did it last even five minutes?”

Bond had the grace to look embarrassed. “Not quite.”

Q shook his head, hid his smile, and continued, “I can only imagine, in that case. Did she start by restraining you, or did she jump right ahead to the S&M?”

“In my defence, it’s not as if I haven’t been handcuffed before,” Bond said.

“Yes. How many times for fun?”

“I’m not certain I’d call it ‘fun’, but usually at least for a purpose.”

Q smiled and squeezed Bond’s hand. “As I said: colossal idiot. Let’s go a step further. What if _I_ had done what she did?”

Bond’s eyes narrowed in thought. “You know full well that’s different. I know you. I trust you.”

“All right.” Q twisted in his seat, folding one leg under the other, and tried not to bang into the gearshift. He couldn’t recall if Bond had engaged the parking brake, and he doubted that roadside assistance was readily available here without him using his laptop to call on the the Greek National Intelligence Service. “Let’s say that tonight, I wanted to restrain you. I’ve caught you digging around in my luggage — and we’ll have a talk about privacy one of these days,” he added sternly.

Bond shrugged. “If you wanted privacy, you shouldn’t be sleeping with an intelligence agent.”

Q hid a smile and continued, “So, I put those restraints to use. And then, let’s say I wanted to hurt you.”

“Q,” Bond scoffed, “you wouldn’t.”

“Oh, you’re right. I have two whips in that bag in case we meet a particularly stubborn horse that won’t get out of the road.”

Bond’s expression turned wary.

“In answer to what you’re thinking, yes, I have, and yes, I’m _very_ good with them.”

“Fine, then,” Bond said after only the slightest hesitation.

“Yes, because when I finally pushed you into having a flashback to god-knows-what-mission, we wouldn’t have to worry about the sex at all, and you’d be coming up with a story to give M as to why he has to hire another quartermaster.”

Bond let out a frustrated breath. “But that’s the point. You _wouldn’t_ do that.”

“Only because I’ve seen your file. I know your _professional_ history, Bond, but I don’t know anything else about you.” Q shook his head, wondering if he’d ever know all of Bond’s secrets. “That’s why there are limits to this sort of thing. I need to know what you will absolutely not allow me to do.”

Bond huffed incredulously. “You expect what? For me to give you a list?”

“Actually, yes,” Q answered, wondering why he hadn’t considered it before. He let go of Bond’s hand and opened his laptop, saying, “There are resources for _everything_ on the internet. And please, do answer honestly. Don’t assume that it’s something _I_ want, if it’s on the list.”

“What — You’re going to make me fill out paperwork for this.” Bond stared at him. “Bloody paperwork, for _sex?_ Going to Medical for testing, I can understand, but this — this is wrong, Q.”

Q grinned, opening four different sites to see which had the best general information survey available. “It’ll take ten minutes, Bond. Best not to have misunderstandings here.” He finally chose one of the questionnaires and saved a local copy. He shut down the wireless connection, opened the questionnaire, and appended Bond’s initials to the file name.

“I’ve been to every continent on this planet,” Bond said as Q passed him the laptop. He stared at it as if it were a venomous snake. “I’ve _killed_ people on every continent. I’ve collapsed buildings, stolen every form of terrestrial transportation available — including an entire passenger train — and you’ve just managed to find something I’ve never even _considered_ doing. Congratulations, Q.”

Q grinned. “If there’s anything you’ve never heard of, do let me know. I’m going to stretch my legs,” he said, and got out of the car. The scenery really was gorgeous, if a bit underdeveloped. Still, much as Q preferred cities, he could appreciate the countryside, in small doses.

Not two minutes later, he heard the car door open. He turned back, thinking there was no way Bond could have possibly answered a hundred questions so quickly. “Problem with your paperwork here, Q,” Bond called.

Q walked to his side, trainers crunching on the rocks. “Did it crash?” he asked, leaning down to look at the screen.

“More a matter of context. This ‘have done’ column. Given my professional history —”

“Oh.” Q shook his head. “I, ah, suggest you consider that in — Well, let’s disregard anything done for a mission unless it’s something you’d like to try again, shall we?”

“Probably for the best,” Bond agreed, “but I’m still going to insist on keeping a weapon close at hand, no matter what.” He glanced up at Q, his expression serious, and added, “I want to keep you safe.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

~~~

 

“An island. You booked us our own bloody island,” Q said, looking out the window at the black sea, so dark and mirror-smooth that he imagined he could see the stars reflected on the surface. “You don’t do anything by half-measures, do you?”

Bond kicked the door closed, came upstairs, and dropped the last of their bags at the foot of the bed. “It’s not five-star accommodation, but it’s private. I thought that was more important,” he said, walking up to the window to pull Q into his arms.

Q smiled and closed his eyes, leaning back against Bond’s chest. This was definitely not a five-star hotel. The ‘island’ was little more than a rocky hillside, dotted with grass. It boasted one dock, a generator, and a small house with a loft bedroom overlooking the kitchen. Q had rather nervously verified that they had running water, though he’d harbour doubts about the water heater until proven wrong. Altogether, it was a technological nightmare, just far enough off the coast that their only contact with the outside world would be through satellite. His mobile might as well have been a paperweight.

“It’s perfect,” he agreed, covering Bond’s arms with his own.

Bond dipped his head, nuzzling through Q’s hair to press a kiss against his ear. “You’re not tired, are you?”

Q smiled and shook his head. “Not in the least.”

“Perhaps we should get started on that list of yours, then,” Bond suggested, turning the kiss into a gentle bite that sparked pleasure and pain down Q’s spine. Q licked his lips and pressed back against Bond’s body, enjoying the feeling of being held. Diverting as one-night stands could be, they lacked a certain warmth. Bond, for all his independent, aloof, secret-agent glamour, was proving to be incredibly affectionate, at least in private.

“Take off your clothes,” Q said, releasing his hold on Bond’s arms. “Lie on the bed, on your back.”

Bond’s arms tightened momentarily. Then he released Q with one last kiss, and Q heard him walk away from the window. Q remained for a minute, looking out at the sea. He wanted to do this, but the thought was terrifying all the same. Push too little and this wouldn’t be real; too much, and he might lose Bond’s trust.

 _Minefield,_ he thought with a grim little smile. He listened to the now-familiar sound of Bond removing his holster and setting his weapon down by the bed. Then he shook his head and went to rifle through his bags, trying not to pay attention to the distracting picture of Bond stripping.

They’d left London within hours of Q releasing the XCOM protocols on his office. One trip to M’s office for leave authorisation, one trip to Bond’s flat, and one to Q’s. Q had spent more time packing the minimum provisions he needed to survive — electronics, all of it — while Bond had indulged his nosy side by poking through the clothes that Q had packed. Then he’d got to the bag Q had pulled out of his closet and dumped with the rest of his luggage, thinking it would take too long for him to actually sort out what he wanted to bring.

Now, when Q unzipped the bag, Bond looked over. Q didn’t meet his eyes; he sorted through the contents, saying, “You can snoop to your heart’s content tomorrow, Bond. I don’t want your curiosity tonight — only your obedience.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bond go still. Q continued to rifle through the bag, though he held his breath until Bond went back to removing his clothes. A memory rose up unbidden — a girl he’d picked up soon after moving back to London, saying, “You dominant types have it easy. We’re the ones who do all the bloody work.”

Right.

As Bond lay down, Q tossed four black leather cuffs onto the bed. They were thick and strong, with reinforced stitching and rivets to either side of the D-rings. The buckles had little loops that could be fitted with locks.

Bond stared at them as if suddenly uncertain.

Q said nothing. He found the mesh bag of rope, hand-twisted hemp with sewn ends that wouldn’t fray, and took out four ten-foot lengths. Then he dropped the rope and crouched by the bed, throwing up the bedspread to check the frame.

Bond twisted around to look over the edge of the bed. “What are —” he began, before he went silent.

Q looked up at him. “On your back,” he reminded Bond, who moved back out of sight with an irritated huff. Q closed his eyes, took a steadying breath, and gave the metal frame an experimental push. If it wasn’t strong enough, he could weave the ropes under the box spring, but that would take time he didn’t want to waste.

He decided to give it a try. This was more than half illusion and trickery, rather than an attempt — a _suicidal_ attempt, given Bond’s record of escape — to restrain an angry, determined Double O agent.

In quick order, he tied a length of rope to each of the legs of the bed. Then he sat down on the edge and gathered the cuffs. “There’s one last thing we need to discuss,” he said, setting the two longer cuffs aside. “A safeword. Think of it like a duress code.”

Bond’s sigh was a little abrupt, betraying his tension. “I did my research, if you’ll recall.”

“Well then?”

“Skyfall.”

Q nodded, hiding his surprise. He’d been expecting something innocuous, perhaps even Bond’s work-assigned duress word, ‘stone’. Not something so personal.

He pushed on, reaching for one of Bond’s hands. “Tonight, if you say ‘stop’ or ‘no’, I’ll stop. But you can always say ‘Skyfall’, no matter what we’re doing, and I’ll stop.”

“I understand the convention,” Bond snapped, his eyes locked to Q’s, though Q knew he could probably tell to the nearest millimetre where the cuff was in relation to his wrist.

“Good. Because if you _don’t_ tell me to stop, I’m going to do as I like. Understand?”

Bond’s eyes flickered down to the cuff for an instant. “Yes.”

Q nodded and wrapped the leather around Bond’s wrist. The cuff was softened with age, meant to be worn for hours. Q tugged it tight, though naturally Bond’s wrist circumference fell between two of the holes in the strap. Wanting Bond to know he wouldn’t be escaping, Q chose the tighter one. He didn’t ask if it was comfortable.

Bond said nothing, though he watched intently as Q buckled the second cuff around his other wrist. When Q moved down to put on the ankle cuffs, Bond drew in a sharp breath and lay back, staring up at the ceiling. He breathed deeply, a blatant attempt to maintain his composure. Judging by the way his fingers kept twitching, nearly curling his hands into fists, he was failing.

But he didn’t object — didn’t safeword — and Q allowed himself to think that this might actually work. Bond was tense and anxious, but he was still willing.

At the foot of the bed, Q guided Bond’s ankles out towards the corners. He took hold of the first rope and draped it over Bond’s ankle, laying the rope just above the cuff, rather than actually tying it to the D-ring. When he tossed the excess over the edge of the bed, Bond lifted his head off the pillows to watch. “Stay still,” he told Bond as he did the same to the other ankle.

Bond frowned at him. “What are —”

“Unless you’re safewording, be silent,” Q told him, walking around to the head of the bed. He tossed the rope tied there onto the mattress, pulled it taut, and set it in Bond’s hand. Automatically, Bond’s fingers curled around, brushing against the rope. “Hold on,” Q told him, pressing his fingers closed around the rope. Again, he didn’t tie the rope to the cuff.

Bond glanced at the rope, and Q saw he was about to speak. Then he caught himself and looked back at the ceiling before closing his eyes.

 _Minefield, minefield, minefield,_ Q thought to himself as he went around to the last corner of the bed. If he ever let Bond dom him, the only rational safeword would be ‘minefield’. In fact, he looked forward to one day explaining that to Bond.

Once Bond was holding onto the second rope, Q stepped back from the bed and kicked off his trainers. Bond looked over at the sound, eyes narrowing as he tried to figure out what Q was doing. When Bond met his eyes, Q said, “If you let go, I stop, and we’ll just go to sleep.”

Bond’s glare turned angry. His knuckles went white, and he stayed silent through sheer willpower.

Q pulled off his layered shirts and shivered a little as the cool evening air washed over his skin. He sat down on the edge of the bed and rested his hand on Bond’s chest. “You want to say something,” he said quietly. “Go ahead.”

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” Bond snapped without hesitation.

There were too many possible answers for Q to decide which one he should give. “What I want,” he finally said.

The answer seemed to infuriate Bond, whose voice took on an icy edge as he demanded, “Afraid it’ll be too much, then? I’m not about to break, Q. I’ve dealt —”

“No,” Q interrupted, finally catching on. “Absolutely not.”

“Then what’s _this_ for?” Bond demanded, lifting his hands with a sharp tug against the ropes.

“A test of your self-control.”

Bond blinked, anger melting into consideration. “What do you plan on doing?”

Q smiled. “Making you let go.”


	11. Chapter 11

Q could spend hours touching Bond, but it felt like no time at all before he felt Bond’s self-control start to crumble. He mouthed at Bond’s cock, making his hips twitch violently up as he growled out a curse. Laughing quietly, Q licked the tip before he slid down, settling more comfortably between Bond’s legs.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Q,” Bond snarled, dragging one foot a few inches up the bed before he stopped himself. Q’s threat of stopping extended to the ropes on Bond’s ankles. They were only draped in place, and too much movement of any kind would dislodge them.

Softly, Q swiped his tongue over Bond’s balls, and the muttering became incoherent. He trapped the loose skin between his lips and sucked lightly before nosing lower, reaching as best he could for the sensitive spot behind.

This time, both of Bond’s legs bent back, and Q stopped, deliberately lifting his head to look down at the ropes. “You’ll want to be careful with that, Bond,” he said in his best professional, emotionless tone of voice, the same voice he used when suggesting Bond bring back his issued gear intact for once. “Unless you’d rather I stop?”

“If you even _consider_ stopping...” Bond began, attempting his fiercest, coldest glare. It might have worked, if not for the desperation in his eyes and the flush in his tanned cheeks.

Thoughtfully, Q twisted back around, propped up on his elbows, and ran one fingertip down Bond’s cock. Bond’s head fell back against the pillow as he hissed in a breath through clenched teeth.

“This is what a lifetime of instant gratification gets you, Bond,” Q observed clinically. “No self-control.”

“What precisely is stopping me from letting go of these ropes and taking you?” Bond demanded. “You can’t hide the fact that you want me as much as I want you.”

Q grinned at Bond and crawled up his body, deliberately stopping to press their cocks together. “You’re not wrong,” he agreed, kissing Bond’s cheek gently. He leaned in closer with another slow, hard push of his hips, and whispered in his ear, “But you won’t do that. You can do this — for me.”

Bond pulled in a breath and demanded, “Tie the ropes.”

Q looked up abruptly, meeting Bond’s eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Tie the bloody ropes.” Bond lifted his hand. “Now, Q.”

“Are you certain?” Q asked, struggling to hide his excitement at the thought.

“One of us is going to end up tied to this bed,” Bond threatened. “Either you decide which of us, or I will.”

Q nodded, trying to maintain some level of dignity as he scrambled off Bond to get at his right wrist. Bond twisted to watch Q pull the length of rope through the D-ring. He tied the rope off, leaving a long tail that he pulled across towards the other side of the bed, behind Bond’s pillow.

Then he circled around to the foot of the bed, glancing at the rope twisted over Bond’s foot. He reached for the rope before he caught himself and jerked his hand back. This had to be Bond’s decision, not his. “Legs, too?”

Bond looked down at Q and hesitated before he nodded. “Might as well,” he said roughly. His right hand clenched into a fist as he tested the strength of the rope.

Quickly, Q pulled the rope through the D-ring, turning the cuff so the ring was at the inside of his ankle, forcing his legs apart another inch. Again, he pulled the excess towards the middle of the bed before he went to the other ankle. “You remember your safeword, don’t you?” he asked, prompted by a nagging sense of worry, now that his initial excitement had passed.

Bond blew out a breath, testing the rope at his right ankle. “Of all the partners you’ve ever had, I’m the _least_ likely to forget a code word, Q. Stop fussing.”

“It’s my job to fuss,” Q countered as he knotted the rope to the other cuff. Then he pulled the two loose ends together and tied a simple square knot, pulling the slack as tight as he could.

“What —” Bond began. Then he laughed, looking down to see what Q was doing. “Clever. How often have you done this?”

“Often enough.” Q paused beside his bag and opened the outside pocket, where he kept the emergency supplies. He took out a pair of blunt, heavy shears and showed them to Bond as he sat down by his left wrist. “I can cut the ropes quickly, but if you’re more comfortable, I can leave one hand free so you can get at your weapon.”

Bond took a breath, his eyes going distant and calculating. Then he shook his head. “No. We’re as safe here as we can be. Not even M knows where we are.”

Q put the shears down on the bedside table and touched his fingertips to Bond’s mouth, tracing his bottom lip. “Why do you want to do this?” he asked.

“It’s as you said: I don’t have a habit of denying myself anything,” he explained, glancing away evasively. “And I don’t enjoy failure.”

Q wanted to explain the truth: that this was nothing more than a playful challenge. He’d been watching Bond for any sign that he was going to let go, and he would’ve put a stop to the teasing before then. He wanted to push Bond to the edge of failure, not over it.

But to succeed, the challenge required _belief_ on both sides. Bond had to be uncertain, or the trust between them would be meaningless. Truth or not, Bond had to _believe_ that Q would have stopped everything the moment he let go of the ropes.

So Q just nodded and pulled the last rope tight, knotting it around the D-ring at Bond’s left wrist. Bond took hold of the rope that crossed his palm, testing the tension.

“I’m not going to go easier on you because you’re bound,” Q said, pushing up on all fours so he could reach the slack ends of the rope behind Bond’s pillow.

Bond lifted his head and swiped his tongue over Q’s abdomen, and then laughed when Q flinched. “I would be disappointed if you did.”

Q tied the ends of the ropes, pulling Bond’s hands a couple of inches closer together, removing almost all slack in his position. “Try and get free,” he said, climbing back off the bed.

“ _Without_ breaking bones?”

“Were you always this much of a pain in the arse or did you work to develop your talent?” Q countered.

Bond smirked and closed his eyes, frowning thoughtfully for a moment. “I could probably compress the upper corner of the mattress enough to pull the rope around. That would give another inch of slack, perhaps enough for me to get at the centre knot, though that’s doubtful. More likely, I’d need to break the bedframe or my hand.”

“Do you think you can avoid the temptation to do either?”

“If you stop this bloody talking and start distracting me, yes. Otherwise, I won’t be held responsible when my instinct to escape takes over.”

Grinning, Q touched Bond’s lips with one fingertip. “If you keep giving orders, I’ll have to gag you, Bond, and I’d really rather not. This time.”

 

~~~

 

Teasing Bond mindless while he was free had been more arousing than any scene in recent memory. Doing it while he was restrained was almost too perfect to be believed. Q touched and licked every inch of Bond’s body until he thrashed against the cuffs, but Bond’s demands had never quite crossed into begging. He also hadn’t once said ‘stop’ or ‘enough’, much less his safeword. So Q indulged himself, learning everything possible about how to drive Bond out of his mind.

Finally, when it was too much even for him, he sprawled over Bond’s body, propped up on his knees to give Bond only the lightest friction as he thrust his hips desperately up. “I’ve got you, James,” Q said soothingly, dipping his head to allow Bond to kiss him. Teeth closed on his lip, stinging and sharp, and he pulled back enough to say, “It’s all right.”

“Fucking _hell_ it is,” Bond snapped, lifting his head to chase the kiss.

Q leaned farther up the bed, reaching for the rope behind Bond’s pillow. “It’s done. You’re fine —”

“Done,” Bond repeated, the word a growl. He arched his back and scraped his teeth over Q’s ribs, making Q hiss in surprise and flinch away. “Absolutely bloody not.”

The first knot untied easily; the one around Bond’s wrist was more challenging, and Q finally had to move off the bed and away from Bond’s demanding mouth. “Trust me, James,” he said, digging his fingers into the twists of rope. He finally found the right place to apply pressure and loosened it.

Immediately, Bond jerked his hand, pulling his wrist two feet away from the corner before friction tightened the knot again. With a furious snarl, Bond strained to get at the knot with his teeth.

Q took advantage of Bond’s distraction to fetch the lubricant from his bag, wondering why the hell he hadn’t taken it out earlier. By the time he had it, Bond’s right hand was already free, and he was going for the cuff on his left wrist.

“Bond! Don’t!” he ordered sharply, punctuating his words by skimming a hand over Bond’s hard cock.

Bond’s fists clenched. “What the hell did you _expect_ me to do?”

“Just a bit more patience,” Q said, crawling up Bond’s body to kneel over his abdomen. He put the bottle on the bed and took hold of Bond’s free hand, lifting it to his lips.

Bond exhaled sharply as Q took one finger into his mouth. He worked his tongue against the tip and sucked lightly, moving down until his lips brushed Bond’s hand. Then he backed away so he could take in two fingers instead, closing his eyes to lavish attention on them. Bond’s breathing turned soft and ragged.

“Q,” he breathed as Q moved to his third finger.

Smiling just slightly, Q gave one last lick before he lowered Bond’s hand. “Trust me,” Q said softly. He picked up the lubricant and turned Bond’s hand over so he could pour a generous amount into his palm. After he set the bottle aside, he swept a fingertip through the puddle and swirled the liquid around and over Bond’s fingers, coating them completely.

“What are you doing?” Bond asked, staring wide-eyed at Q.

In answer, Q knelt upright and guided Bond’s hand between his legs. For a moment, he had to fight Bond’s strength as he reached instinctively for Q’s cock — a temptation that Q had to work to resist. He slid his hand under Bond’s and pushed up, closing his eyes when he felt Bond’s slick fingertip brush over his entrance.

Bond went still, and Q had to finally push down, holding Bond’s hand still so he could press onto his fingertip. Until this point he’d denied himself, focusing only on breaking through Bond’s resistance with pleasure. Now, the touch was almost too much, lighting up nerves that had been neglected for far too long.

“Q,” Bond said quietly, holding his hand very, very still. “You don’t — You don’t have to —”

“No, I don’t,” Q agreed, surprised at how breathless his voice already sounded. Since leaving London, they’d kissed and touched but they’d done little else. This was something new, something that Q wanted to do for them both — an act of control and surrender in equal measure. He pushed harder at the back of Bond’s hand, relaxing as he took Bond’s finger deeper into his body. “Don’t stop, James.”

Bond took a breath and pushed deeper. “God, Q.” He eased his finger out almost all the way, a gorgeous drag of skin that made Q’s body shiver and clench.

Q braced his weight on his hands, raising his hips to give Bond better access to his body. “Two now, James. You won’t hurt me.”

“Fuck,” Bond breathed, and eased a second finger in beside the first.

“That was my intention, yes,” Q said, pushing down harder this time. His eyes closed tightly at the stretch, the subtle burn, and he had to remind himself to breathe. “Unless you’d prefer something else?”

“No.”

Q waited, but that was all he said. No clever, characteristic retort. A warm sense of accomplishment filled him at the knowledge that he’d eased Bond into subspace. He wanted to appreciate the moment, but Bond moved his fingers again, focusing Q’s attention on his own body.

“You’re —” Q’s breath caught as Bond pushed deeper into him, fingers twisting and pressing. “You’re very good at this.”

“If I’d known you liked this, I would’ve offered sooner.” Bond shifted under Q, raising his head for another kiss. When Q obligingly dipped his head — and the movement of Bond’s fingers was like an electric current deep inside him — Bond whispered against his lips, “You’re a sight, Q. Bloody perfect.”

The kiss faded into open-mouthed panting as Bond’s movements grew faster. Q closed his eyes tightly and dug his fingers into the pillow as he rocked back hard against Bond’s fingers, until he knew he had to stop. “Bond,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Bond. Stop.”

“Why?”

Q tried to inject a level of authority into his voice and failed miserably. “Bond. Do as I say.”

Bond’s movements slowed, fingers flexing gently now. “What do you want, then?” Bond teased.

Q laughed raggedly. “Not very clever if you don’t already know,” he accused. The insistent pressure of Bond’s fingers was distracting, but not nearly as much as his movements had been. “Stop, or I leave you like this and go have a wank in the corner. Alone,” he added for emphasis.

The bastard laughed, knowing that Q would never carry out the threat, but he cooperated all the same. He took his time, dragging his fingers out with slow care. “One day, I want to make you come like this.”

“Yes.” Q nodded without hesitation, biting his lip to hold back an undignified whimper as Bond finally pulled his hand back. He rested his forehead against Bond’s shoulder and breathed.

“Q...” Bond turned, brushing his face against Q’s hair. “If you let me go, I can help with this.”

Q shook his head, grinning. “Not very clever at all,” he said, a measure of strength returning to his voice.

He pushed up onto all fours and crawled back enough to reach the abandoned bottle. He opened the cap and knelt back on Bond’s spread legs so he could pour some out onto his hand. He glanced up and saw Bond watching intently, expectantly. He’d regained his composure, though, so Q rubbed his fingers through the lubricant, spreading it, and then brushed his palm over his own cock, rather than Bond’s.

“Q? What are you doing?” Bond asked suspiciously, lifting his head. He reached down tentatively, touching a finger to Q’s knee.

Instead of answering, Q looked down at Bond’s hand. His own hand never stopped moving, though he kept his touch light and teasing. “Either you can put your hand back up and hold the rope, or I’ll tie it down for you,” he said. “I’ll allow you to decide.”

Bond’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t hesitate, though, as he reached back, feeling for the rope. He took hold of it and twisted it around his fist.

Q saw no reason not to reward that sort of obedience — not when it was as much a reward for him as well. He moved his hand to Bond’s cock and swiped up, light and fast. He’d spent all night learning what Bond enjoyed, what made his breath catch, and what threatened to break his self-control. Now, Q put that knowledge to devastating use, teasing with hard strokes followed by light touches timed to make Bond’s breath stutter.

Only when Bond was panting and straining at the ropes did Q stop teasing. He moved back up, waiting until Bond met his eyes before he lowered his body, just barely touching the head of Bond’s cock to his entrance.

For breathless seconds, neither of them moved, not even to breathe. Q stared down, enthralled by the raw need in Bond’s expression. No more masks. No more ice in his eyes. Q felt as if he was already dangerously addicted to this side of Bond, a side no one else knew existed. And because he had no idea if Bond would ever allow him this again, he wanted to memorise everything, to savour it.

“Q.”

“If I asked —” Q began, before he cut himself off. He wouldn’t ask Bond to beg — not even playfully, in this context. He didn’t even think he could ignore ‘no’ or ‘stop’, despite Bond having chosen a safeword. Bond’s trust, his willingness to follow Q where he led, meant more than any of the conventional trappings of a scene.

This had never been about sex, but it had become more than an exercise in friendship and trust. Q cared more for Bond than he would for any field agent who needed his expertise or a casual partner for a shared night of pleasure. This was a terrible idea — Bond _didn’t_ do relationships — but it was too late for Q to save himself.

Bond frowned as Q’s silence lingered. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Q leaned down to give Bond a reassuring kiss, allowing his fingers to skim up the length of Bond’s cock. Bond’s gasp helped Q find his focus. He pushed his body down, breathing a soft curse at the burn.

“Oh, fucking Christ,” Bond whispered, pulling sharply against the ropes. “Q, don’t stop.”

As if he could stop? Q huffed out a breath that was meant to be a laugh and pushed down another inch before he had to wait again. Bond growled and clenched his jaw, lifting up off the pillow to stare at their joined bodies. Q worked himself down a bit more, biting back a groan at the sensation.

By the time his arse settled gently against Bond’s hips, Q was panting, nearly dizzy at the sensations that threatened to overwhelm him. He rested a hand on Bond’s chest and said in a broken voice, “Don’t move. Please.”

Bond barely nodded, hair rustling against the pillowcase. Every breath pressed up against Q’s hand and shifted the position of his cock enough to light new sparks behind Q’s eyes. Q bit his lip hard and tried to think of his last coding project or the targeting system upgrades he’d planned weeks ago.

“Q.”

“I’m — Just, another minute,” Q said, opening his eyes to meet Bond’s gaze.

“This... isn’t what I’d expected, Q.”

A hint of worry pushed back the haze of pleasure filling Q’s mind. “Should I stop?”

“No. God, no. But...” Bond hesitated. “How long has it been since you’ve done this?”

Q shook his head, struggling to remember. “A year? Perhaps two.”

“Christ,” Bond breathed, right hand twisting in the rope again. “This _is_ what you want?”

“Yes.” Q tried not to laugh. He nodded. “Yes. Do you?”

“Some genius, if you have to ask,” Bond teased gently.

Q smiled and gave Bond an affectionate kiss. “Really? Tell me I’m not a genius for _this,_ ” he said, arching his back and rolling his hips up. Bond snapped his teeth shut to muffle his groan. Q lifted as far as he dared, until only the head of Bond’s cock was held tight in his body, before he began a slow push back down.

“Bloody tease is what you are,” Bond accused.

Q leaned forward, legs pressed to Bond’s hips. The change in angle made Bond gasp, and he fought the ropes to try and thrust into Q again. “I wouldn’t move at all, James,” Q warned. “If I lose you, I might be tempted to finish this on my own.”

Bond exhaled sharply and closed his eyes, knuckles going white. “You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t dare.”

“Are you certain you want to test my resolve?”

Bond’s eyes flew open, and he pressed his lips tightly together as though determined not to give Q the satisfaction of a verbal response. He couldn’t help his body’s betrayal, though; his jaw clenched and his breath escaped in a hiss despite his effort to remain silent.

Q knelt upright and started to move down, angling his hips just so. Bond’s body went tense, back arching to fight the pull of the ropes, but the words he tried to speak were lost under the harsh rhythm of their breathing. Once Q had his balance, he wrapped his right hand around his cock.

It wasn’t in his nature to be entirely selfish, but he gave it a good show all the same and held back nothing, letting Bond hear every cry and feel every tremor of his body. He was distantly aware of Bond saying his name between breaths.

As the building pleasure became almost too much, his hand went still. He flattened his other hand against Bond’s abdomen for balance and kept moving, ignoring the way his thigh muscles burned from the strain.

Then he felt a touch on his cock, callused fingers threading between his, and his movements faltered. He looked down to see Bond’s hand, tanned and strong.

“Let me,” Bond said when Q lifted his head and met his eyes.

Q nodded, too breathless to speak, and concentrated on driving his hips down hard. It only took a few sharp strokes of Bond’s hand before it was all too much. He gasped out, “James,” and everything went white as he closed his eyes tightly.

“Q, fucking Christ, Q,” Bond was whispering when Q could finally hear over the sound of his heart pounding. “So bloody gorgeous, watching that.”

Q dragged in a breath and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the pillow. The feeling of Bond’s cock, still hard inside him, lit fires against oversensitive nerves. “Give me a moment,” he said unsteadily.

“If it’s too much, you don’t —”

“No.” Q settled against Bond’s body, taking deep breaths. “No, it’s fine. I want to.”

Bond’s free arm wrapped around Q’s shoulders. “Sorry if you didn’t want my help there.”

“No, you’re not,” Q accused.

Bond laughed. “No. But I’m normally a much better liar than I seem to be at the moment.”

Q turned enough to kiss Bond’s neck, words catching in his throat, too volatile to be spoken aloud. Bond turned, demanding another kiss, this one a lazy slide of open mouths and tongues. Q smiled into the kiss and experimentally moved his hips.

“Oh, bloody fucking —” Bond cut off with a sharp inhale. “Q.”

With a thoughtful sort of hum, Q propped up on an elbow and moved again, all the way down. “How do you want it?” he asked. “Slow? Hard?”

Bond’s hand moved to Q’s hip, and his lips twitched up into a smirk. “Hard, Q,” he said, his voice taking on a challenging tone. “Make me forget everything but you.”

Slowly, Q grinned. Maybe Bond wouldn’t surrender, but that didn’t mean Q had to be the one to give in. “With pleasure.”


	12. Chapter 12

Back in London, after weeks of sleeping alone, the sharp sound of Q’s secure mobile snapped him awake. He snatched it up off the coffee table, overturning a box of small bolts, and yanked the charging cord free. His heart jumped when he saw the caller identification on the screen.

“007?” he answered, painfully aware that all calls on this line, at least, were monitored.

“I’ve arranged early transport back to London,” Bond answered, his voice businesslike and brusque. “Can you have someone meet me at Gatwick, or shall I —”

“No. Yes. That’s fine,” Q said, kicking at the blanket he vaguely remembered dragging over himself some time around three in the morning. He blinked at the sunlight coming through the curtains. “I’ll — have someone meet you,” he said for the benefit of the recording devices. He fully intended to go himself.

Two weeks of never leaving Bond’s side had been paradise. To follow up their vacation with a five-week field assignment for Bond had been sheer hell, at least for Q. Bond hadn’t even had a proper chance to say goodbye. He’d no sooner reported to work than M had sent him right off again, while Q was buried in the paperwork that had accumulated during his absence.

“I’ll forward on my itinerary. I should be landing shortly.”

“You’re calling from the plane?”

“Would you rather I waited until I was at the airport?”

Q hid his laugh and said, “All right. I’ll take care of it.”

Bond rang off without another word. Q checked the time — half ten in the morning, which meant he’d actually had a full night’s sleep. Or morning’s. He brought the mobile with him as he went to brush his teeth and assess the damage that sleeping on the couch had done to his hair. With his luck, Bond was calling as the plane was making its descent, which meant Q would have to race out to get him.

Sure enough, when Bond’s message came through, Q realised he had all of an hour to get changed and make it through midday traffic to the airport.

“Damn you, Bond,” he muttered, grinning at his reflection.

 

~~~

 

Q clenched his hand around the keys and stayed where he was, leaning casually against Bond’s Audi. Every instinct was screaming at him to rush to Bond’s side. Though they were both wearing sunglasses, Q could feel Bond’s eyes roving over him as he did the same. Bond looked good — unharmed, thankfully, which was a rare surprise, after a mission.

As soon as he was ten feet away, Q tossed the keys to him. “I changed all of your radio station presets,” he said, circling around to the passenger side.

“I know where you live,” Bond answered smoothly, opening the boot to stow his overnight bag.

Q smiled and got into the car. He restrained himself from looking back to watch Bond walk to the driver’s seat.

As soon as Bond had the car door closed and the engine running, Q said softly, “I missed you.”

Bond glanced at him, his smile faint but there, if one knew where to look. Q did.

“Are we going back to the office, then?” Q asked.

“You never did tell me how often anyone reviews our recorded communications,” Bond said, steering the Audi away from the kerb.

“Hardly ever, unless there’s reason. Why?”

“I might have neglected to let M know I was returning ahead of schedule.”

Q smiled. “You’re required to report as soon as your missions are complete. If your record is to be believed, you broke into M’s predecessor’s flat on more than one occasion to do so.”

“The current M’s as well,” Bond agreed cheerfully. “Surely by now you know I always follow the rules.”

Grinning now, Q said, “You really are a terrible liar.” He took his work mobile out of his pocket and started composing a quick message to his subordinates. Normally he was on-call over weekends, but what was the point of having underlings if one couldn’t make them work Saturdays and Sundays?

“Monday should be soon enough, don’t you think?”

“I suppose that’s only fair. Take the weekend to rest.”

“Sod rest. I know exactly what I want to do this weekend.”

“Oh?” Q sent the message, and then pressed and held the power button to shut down his mobile. _Free,_ he thought as the weekend seemed to open with new possibilities.

Aggressively, Bond overtook two cars as if the road were his personal red carpet and the other drivers overenthusiastic paparazzi. “I want to see you in those black trousers of yours. You still have them, don’t you?”

“Bond, that’s half my wardrobe,” Q said, momentarily distracted by the very up-close-and-personal sight of a lorry’s rear bumper. Once it passed, his mind caught up with Bond’s. “Oh. The PVC?”

Bond shot him a startled look. “PVC? You’ve mixed up your chemistry. That’s for plumbing.”

Q grinned. “Let’s stop at my flat, then. I’ll show you the rest of my clothes.”

 

~~~

 

Of all the people Q knew, Bond had perhaps the most refined sense of style. Q imagined that clothes shopping with Bond would be a days-long procedure involving consultations on cut and cloth, philosophical discussions of buttons and lapel styles, and multiple fittings. Bond was the type of man who was either a tailor’s best fantasy or worst nightmare, if not both.

Now, watching as Bond turned that discerning eye on the small, carefully crafted wardrobe Q had assembled over the years, Q couldn’t help but wonder if Bond was completely out of his depth. He had to bite his tongue to keep from grinning.

“This _fits_?” Bond asked, holding up a tiny, sleeveless shirt of stretchy latex. It was black, printed with a circuit trace pattern over the shoulders in slate grey. “You’re a skinny thing, but this wouldn’t fit a child.”

“Give it here,” Q said impulsively, rising from where he sat on the edge of his bed.

Bond turned, holding the shirt. His eyes went dark and heated as he watched Q pull off his much looser, much more boring shirt. “Or we could forego clothing altogether,” he hinted.

Q dropped his shirt and held out his hand. “Now, Bond,” he said, infusing his voice with quiet command.

In Bond’s momentary hesitation, Q could see him shaking off his post-mission tension, allowing Q’s will to take its place. There was something calmer and easier about Bond when he finally worked the shirt off the plastic hanger. He draped the shirt over Q’s hand and put the hanger back in the wardrobe, resuming his search in silence. Behind Bond’s back, Q smiled.

“That first night I found you at that nightclub, do you remember I asked for your clothing advice?”

“Yes.” Q carried the shirt to his bathroom. He left the door open and took the baby powder from the cupboard under the sink.

“I can’t picture myself in _any_ of this.”

“The leather,” Q said at once, closing his eyes to better picture it in his mind. He leaned against the counter and shook the powder over his shoulders. “Definitely the leather.”

“Your nightclub is — What on earth are you doing?” Bond asked from the doorway.

Q looked over his shoulder and smirked when he saw Bond was holding the PVC trousers. “The only ways to put on this shirt — and those trousers — are powder or lubricant.”

Bond draped the trousers on the counter and took the powder from Q’s hand. “I knew you cheated,” he said, swiping his palms through the cool powder and over Q’s back. The feeling was slick but dry, drawing a shiver up Q’s spine.

“You’re going to ruin your suit,” Q warned halfheartedly, meeting Bond’s eyes in the mirror.

Bond leaned over, pressed his body to Q’s, and asked softly, “Do you want me to stop?”

Q closed his eyes, his heart skipping a beat. How could he have once thought Bond nothing more than a weapon, a government-sanctioned killing machine? He’d never imagined someone like Bond could have such a playful side.

“Don’t you dare,” he said when he could speak.

“As I was saying earlier, your nightclub is open tonight, isn’t it?” Bond asked as he went back to smoothing the powder over every inch of Q’s back.

“It’s Saturday, so yes.”

“Do you know where to find me leather trousers on short notice? It’s that or I wear this suit,” he teased.

Q licked dry lips. He pushed up from the counter and turned, studying Bond’s face. “You look damned good in denim, too. That one pair of blue jeans — the ones faded almost white over the thighs.”

“Thousand pound suits, and you choose jeans I bought for twenty quid to work on my car,” Bond teased, taking his time to spread the powder over Q’s chest.

“Mmm, but they’re _very_ nice jeans, and you have them already,” Q pointed out, unbuckling his belt. Playfully, Bond batted at his hands and unclasped the waistband himself. Q looked down, watching as Bond left smudges everywhere. He pushed away from the countertop long enough for Bond to pull down his trousers and pants in a haze of white powder.

“Go on,” Bond prompted, unnecessarily easing the cloth down Q’s legs, fingertips trailing lightly over his bare skin. He crouched down in front of Q, looking provocatively back up at him, and started to work on taking off his shoes.

“What? Oh. Jeans,” Q remembered distantly. “Jeans and boots. Those faded blue ones should do.”

“Do we need to shop for a shirt?” Bond asked teasingly. He helped Q out of the brogues, tossing them aside.

“No.” Q looked down at Bond, smiling as he thought of the muscles hidden under his customary suit. He stepped out of the fabric pooled around his feet and let Bond pull off his socks.

Bond looked at him expectantly. When Q chose not to elaborate, Bond let it pass. He swept aside the clothing on the floor and asked, “Did you need me to powder your legs as well?”

“Please,” Q answered, though the sound was drawn out on a soft exhale as Bond ran his fingers up Q’s legs to the backs of his knees. Q shivered and looked down at Bond, who met his eyes with a dark, intent stare. Without looking away, Bond leaned his still-clothed body against Q’s bare legs and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Q’s hip.

Bond’s mission had taken four and a half weeks too long. Q reached down, combing his fingers through Bond’s hair, and reluctantly decided that they’d both enjoy the night more if they waited. A few hours wouldn’t kill either of them. Once Q made a decision, he tried to stick with it; he really did. He didn’t hate himself any less, though, when he caught Bond’s hair and pulled sharply to break the soft, hot kiss.

“That would defeat the purpose of the powder, James,” he warned. “Hands only.”

Instead of arguing, Bond looked down, slowly shaking more powder into his hands. He set the container on the floor and dropped from his crouch to kneel at Q’s feet, brushing his hands over Q’s right ankle. If it wasn’t gracefully submissive, it was at least obedient. Q relaxed his hand, smoothing Bond’s hair back down with the gentle scratch that he knew Bond liked.

“You’re in better shape than anyone I know,” Q said truthfully. “Why wouldn’t I want to show you off?”

Working another handful of powder up over Q’s calf, Bond arched a brow, asking wryly, “Because you look ten years younger than you actually are, and I look ancient by comparison?”

“Don’t go fishing for compliments. It’s unnecessary. I’d take you out in nothing but those little swim trunks you like so much, except I don’t want to have to explain to M why his best agent’s been arrested for indecent exposure.” Q inhaled sharply as Bond’s fingers teased up the insides of his thighs. “Besides, with you half-dressed, no one will notice me.”

“In those — If anyone’s getting arrested for indecent exposure, it’d be you, in those trousers,” Bond countered.

Q couldn’t help but grin. “I’ll admit, I’m a bit surprised you prefer them over the leather.”

Bond huffed in amusement, moving to Q’s other leg. “I didn’t pay much attention to the leather. You were a bit hostile that first night.”

“I’m sorry,” Q said softly. “If I’d known that this was a possibility, things might have gone differently the next night.”

“The next?” Bond knelt up, sliding his hands around the backs of Q’s thighs.

Q sighed, stepping away from the counter as Bond’s hands moved further up. “That night, I was angry. I won’t do this if I’m not clear-headed. It’s not wise for either of us.”

Bond made a thoughtful sound, picked up the powder, and stood. “I’d like another chance to see the leather,” he said, shaking more powder into his hands.

“Of course —” he started, though the word turned into a startled hiss as Bond’s hands dipped between their bodies, brushing lightly over his cock. His hips twitched forward of their own accord, and Bond responded, gently closing his fingers around his length. The powder changed the quality of friction, sparking new nerves to life, and Q’s intention to wait began to crumble dangerously.

Bond’s hands moved, light and quick, as he leaned close to Q’s ear to softly ask, “Hands only?”

Q was no stranger to subs who tried to coax concessions out of him. Without really considering his words, he said, “If you want more, I’ll allow it. But I want you to be patient and wait for tonight.”

“Or you could have both,” Bond pointed out, pressing his lips to Q’s neck, just below his ear. “Five weeks is a long time to be alone.”

Q tensed, wondering if Bond had spent those five weeks alone. He’d been with Bond for some of the mission, listening in through surveillance and watching on stolen camera feeds whenever he could, but Bond had spent most of those five weeks off the grid.

He really didn’t want to know how many people Bond had seduced during this last mission. He told himself that it didn’t matter — that when Bond was in the field, the mission came first, before everything else, including his relationship with Q. But that didn’t make him feel any better.

Slowly, Bond moved his hands to Q’s hips. He stepped back enough to look into Q’s eyes, offering, “If you want to wait, we’ll wait.”

With a brief nod, Q looked down at himself, trying to recapture his playfully seductive mood.

Bond touched his face, drawing his eyes back up. He searched Q’s expression before he said, “I didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“I didn’t sleep with anyone,” Bond said, leaning in to gently kiss Q’s lips, soft and sweet and undemanding.

The icy tension in Q’s chest thawed. He returned the kiss, eyes falling closed, before he said, “I don’t expect you to stop. I want to know that you’re going to do everything in your power to come back alive, no matter what you have to do.” He wanted to ask Bond to promise not to tell him, but even that was unreasonable. Q spent so much time on the other end of Bond’s comms, eavesdropping, that discretion would be impossible. He’d have to recuse himself from all of Bond’s missions — he probably should, anyway, but he _couldn’t_. There was no one else he could trust to bring Bond home safely.

Bond exhaled softly and rested his forehead against Q’s. “How did I get so lucky?” he murmured.

“If I recall correctly, through a combination of misuse of government tracking devices, stalking, and criticising my wardrobe,” Q teased affectionately. He reached for the trousers before he slipped out from between Bond and the counter, saying, “Socks.”

Bond turned to watch him. “What?”

“You’ve seen how tight those are,” Q said, going out to the dresser in the bedroom. “If I don’t put socks on now, they’re not going on at all.” He opened his sock drawer and considered his shoes and boots before choosing thick wool socks that would cushion his feet.

When he turned back to the bathroom, he saw Bond was staring at him. “You look like a ghost. How could you lose every hint of your tan from Greece?”

Thinking back to the hours he’d spent watching Bond swim and lounge on the tiny beach, Q said, “Feel free to take me back there anytime.” He leaned on the counter and lifted a foot, only to have Bond pull the socks from his grasp.

“Let me.” It was too softly spoken to be a demand. When Q let it pass in silence, Bond crouched down. He dropped one of the socks and lifted Q’s right foot. “Do I want to know why you’ve chosen socks meant for hiking?”

“If I’m going to be wearing heavy boots all night, I want to be comfortable.”

Bond laughed and tugged the socks up over Q’s feet. Then he stood, glancing over at the trousers. “Right, then. How do we do this?” he asked doubtfully.

“Very patiently,” Q explained. Before Q could pick up the trousers, Bond claimed them and crouched back down. Amused by Bond’s insistence on dressing him, Q showed Bond how to gather up one leg of the trousers to work it over his foot and ankle. “Oh, hell, we’re going back to your flat after I’m dressed, aren’t we?”

Bond didn’t look up from carefully smoothing the PVC up Q’s leg. “If you want me in those jeans, yes.”

“Back to your flat, then. But if your doorman reports me to the Met as a rent boy, I expect you to bail me out before work on Monday.”

“I expect I can smuggle you out of the city before they catch you,” Bond assured him, curving his hands up over Q’s calf. “Christ, these are tight. You’re certain you didn’t buy them a size too small?”

“Wait till you see the shirt,” Q said wryly. At Bond’s prompting, he lifted his other foot into the trousers.

Bond took his time, using the PVC as an excuse to touch Q everywhere, first on bare skin, then over the PVC. As he pulled them up higher, stretching the material to fit it over Q’s hips, he said, “If you want me wearing nothing but jeans, you’re going to have to carry the Walther for me.”

“By regulations, you’re not supposed to carry it when you’re not on a mission.”

“There isn’t a single agent in the programme who actually _follows_ those regulations.” Bond got to his feet and guided Q to turn around so he could keep tugging the PVC up. “We’ll stop by headquarters so I —”

“No!” Q looked at him in the mirror, saying, “Bond, I’m not about to go into MI-bloody-six looking like this.”

Bond smirked. “We could say it’s for undercover work.”

“Don’t make me disable your access card.”

Laughing, Bond said, “Then I’ll go in myself. I’ll get an ankle holster from the armoury.”

“You’re impossible.” Q shook his head, breath catching as Bond reached down, sliding one hand over his balls.

“We’ve had this discussion already,” Bond said, taking his time to ease the PVC around so he could get at the zipper. Q closed his eyes, trying to ignore the temptation of Bond’s hands. “Indulge me.”

“James,” Q warned somewhat breathlessly as Bond’s fingers curled around his cock.

Bond leaned in close, breath ghosting over Q’s ear. “With the holster,” he said, false innocence in his voice. Gently, he tugged the zipper up.

Q exhaled, shifting uncomfortably, and fixed Bond with the sternest glare he could manage. Judging by Bond’s pleased smirk, it wasn’t very effective. “If it’ll make you feel better, fine. You go to MI6 while I lounge around in your flat. Alone. Bored.” He picked up the latex shirt and said, “Wearing all this.”

“Now who’s impossible?” Bond muttered, taking the shirt.

It was Q’s turn to smirk. “I’ve never actually worn this one, you know. I can’t put it on myself.”

Bond unzipped the back of the shirt and held it open. “Why did you buy it? For someone in particular?” he asked as Q put his arms through the armholes and turned around.

“What else should I spend my pay on? Computers, a bit put away for retirement... It’s not as if I have much social life, beyond this. I’ve never been one to go to pubs.”

“All mine, then,” Bond approved, tugging the sides closed so he could latch the zipper. He drew it up carefully, all the way to the back of Q’s neck, and then wrapped his arms around Q’s body. He stared at Q’s reflection, dragging his fingers down his chest, and Q decided that the purchase had been worth every quid just for this moment.


	13. Chapter 13

Q sank down in the passenger seat another inch. The car windows were tinted and he was wrapped up in his black coat with the silver buckles, but he felt far too exposed. Bond had parked two streets down from MI6, which was about five streets too close for Q’s comfort. He should’ve insisted Bond drop him off first.

If someone from work saw him, he might just die on the spot.

His foot nudged the duffel bag he’d brought along at the last minute. He had no particular plans for what they’d be doing later, and he wanted to be prepared for anything. Bond had proven to be surprisingly open to new ideas in Greece.

Months ago, he’d envisioned Bond properly dressed to go out to the nightclub — or _not_ dressed; it would be criminal to cover him up more than necessary. Bond had already agreed to wear his tight blue jeans and no shirt.

It was the rest of his fantasy that worried him.

He leaned down and unzipped the duffel enough to remove a small black bag. After coming back from holiday, he’d ordered a new set of leather cuffs, as close to Bond’s size as he could guess. He wanted to give the wrist cuffs to Bond tonight; hopefully, he’d be open to wearing them to the club.

The collar, though... That would be problematic. He sorted through the leather straps in the bag until he found it. The layers of soft black leather were stitched along the edges, with a narrow strap to hold one D-ring and the buckle in place. He dropped the cloth bag back into the duffel and thoughtfully ran the collar between his fingers.

Q didn’t know what ideas Bond had about collars. To some people, like most of the people at Q’s nightclub, they were fashion accessories. Though he didn’t like them for himself, he knew plenty of dominance-inclined people who wore them as such. To others, though, a collar was a sign of a relationship — of _ownership_ , and that was the problem. Q didn’t want a collar to change his relationship with Bond.

The thought of seeing Bond actually wearing it was almost enough to tempt him into bringing up the idea tonight. But no, the cuffs would be difficult enough to explain. Bond was obsessed with security — especially with his ability to protect Q. Although the cuffs wouldn’t actually be locked together, Bond would be one step closer to helpless while wearing them, something no field agent would easily accept.

The door locks clicked suddenly, startling him. He kicked the bag under the dashboard and shoved the collar into a pocket of his coat to hide it. Bond got into the driver’s seat and tossed a leather-and webbing ankle holster onto Q’s lap. “Is it necessary to actually lock up holsters? Even I would need some imagination to kill someone with it,” he complained as he started the engine.

Q shoved his hand into his coat pocket, folding the collar until it was completely hidden. “It’s called an inventory management system, Bond, and I assume you _did_ properly sign for that.”

“It’s Saturday. There’s some law against signing for equipment on Saturdays,” Bond said airily as he pulled into traffic, finding a gap that was maybe six inches longer than the car.

Q resolutely stared ahead, wondering if he should get Bond into another safe driving course as part of his between-mission training programme. “If that holster isn’t back in inventory by the time I get in on Monday morning, I’m writing you up.”

 

~~~

 

Bond walked out of the wardrobe, looking uncertainly down at his tight, faded blue jeans. They hadn’t worn through quite enough to tear, but one more washing might do the trick. “You’re sure about this?” he asked.

Q put his laptop on the bedside table and drew a little circle in the air. “Turn around.” Grinning, Bond rolled his eyes and turned in a slow circle, though he didn’t make it halfway before Q said, “No. Bond, really. Try again, only without the pants.”

Amused, Bond turned away and went back into the wardrobe, saying, “You could join me, you know.”

Q took a breath and got up off the bed, thinking of the collar still hidden in his coat pocket. The coat was currently hung in the cupboard by the front door. He’d need to find time to sneak it back into his duffel bag — preferably somewhere near the bottom, where Bond wouldn’t immediately find it when he went snooping.

He took the cuffs out of the duffel bag, bending and flexing the leather as he went to the wardrobe doorway. He was just in time to see Bond bend over and step out of both the jeans and pants. “Or we could stay here,” he murmured. It was just as much a crime to cover up his arse and legs, though that wasn’t a view Q was willing to share.

Bond picked up the jeans and turned to face him. “Only if you stay in that,” he said, pointedly looking down Q’s body, though his gaze caught on the cuffs. As he pulled the jeans back on, he met Q’s eyes curiously. “What’s that?”

Q extended one of the cuffs to him. “They’re new. They should fit you perfectly.”

Bond took the leather strap and examined it. “Italian kidskin,” he said with a soft laugh. “And you comment on my expensive tastes?”

“Unless there’s something I don’t know about you, your two-hundred-quid silk ties aren’t meant for bondage.” Q held the second cuff open and stepped closer to Bond.

Obligingly, he set his left wrist against the leather, watching as Q buckled it in place. “It’s comfortable,” he said quietly, watching Q buckle the other one onto his right wrist.

“They’re made to be locked on,” Q said, touching the loop bent into the end of the prong.

Bond looked up from the cuff.

“You don’t have to wear the locks, but... this is what I pictured you wearing at the club.”

Bond’s gaze dropped back to the cuffs. He ran a finger over the leather on his left wrist. “Why?”

“It was my first thought that night when you followed me, in your suit.”

Bond met his eyes. “That first night? You weren’t interested.”

Q caught Bond’s hands, but slid his fingers up to touch the cuffs.

“I wasn’t interested in being a one-night stand — not with you, at any rate. I knew if I let myself even think of wanting you, I wouldn’t be able to settle for anything less than having all of you.”

Muscles flexed under Q’s hands, though Bond didn’t try to twist free. “All right,” Bond said, his eyes dropping, flitting from the latex shirt to the floor to the PVC trousers — anywhere but Q’s face.

Q tugged gently on Bond’s wrists. “What’s ‘all right’?”

Bond took a breath and met his eyes again. “Tonight. I’ll wear it — whatever you want.”

“You —” Q bit back his surprised question. After that first night, he’d never let himself imagine that Bond would give himself like this in even a semi-public setting, like the club.

He let go of Bond’s wrists to pull him close, one arm around his waist, the other hand pressed to the back of his neck. Overwhelmed by Bond’s trust, he held Bond close in silence; he couldn’t begin to express how he felt, at least not in words.

 

~~~

 

Bond nudged Q and gestured over the railing to the dance floor below. “Isn’t she the one you picked up that first night?”

Q turned to scan the crowd until he recognized familiar red-dyed hair. “Yes.” He grinned, adding, “I should introduce you to her. One look at you and she’d certainly understand why I left so quickly.”

“Should I come with you or wait here?” Bond asked, turning to meet Q’s eyes for just a moment before he looked down at Q’s body.

When they’d arrived two hours earlier, Bond hadn’t even hesitated to take off his overcoat. Everyone from the coat check attendants to the crowd on the balcony had stared at him, and with good reason. In a room full of people — admittedly, like Q — who were depending on flashy clothes to gain attention, the simplicity of bare skin and denim stood out. In every single case, though, they looked from Bond’s chest to his shoulders to his arms, before their eyes fell on the cuffs — and stayed there, once they saw the small, secure locks holding them in place.

The effort of dressing and going to MI6 for the ankle holster was worth it just for the knowledge that Bond trusted Q enough to let him close those locks in place.

Failing to entirely hide his grin at the thought, Q fought his way out onto the dance floor and caught Gail’s eye. She was in a black canvas and PVC miniskirt and matching corset, with a silky black short-sleeved top. Her hair was up in two bunches, showing off the collar she’d been wearing last time.

Immediately, Gail extended a hand to him, smiling brightly. “You’re back!” she said loudly over the music. “I thought you’d run off.”

“I have an excuse,” he said, taking her by the waist so he could turn her around. He leaned down and said into her ear, “See the gorgeous one up on the catwalk? No shirt?”

“Mmm, there’s a lovely — He’s _yours_?” she asked, looking back at him.

Q met Bond’s eyes and grinned. “Yes.”

Gail turned, flattening her hands against his chest as the crowd pushed their bodies closer. “Well, isn’t this perfect timing, then.” More loudly, she called, “Shelly!”

Another woman turned to join them, shorter and more curvy than Gail, with shoulder-length blonde hair and a fifties-style halter dress in black and emerald green. “Well, hello,” she said, barely glancing at Q’s face before she took in his body. “Who’ve you been hiding from me, Gail?”

“I was just asking him the same thing,” Gail said, her grin full of interest.

“Want to come upstairs for introductions?” Q offered.

Gail looked back up at the catwalk, and her brows shot up in surprise. “Looks like he’s already making friends of his own.”

Q followed her gaze, and jealousy spiked through him. A woman had taken Q’s place at Bond’s side, all lush curves and tight black satin in a pinup-style dress that hugged her body from shoulders to knees. “Excuse me,” he murmured to Gail and her friend before he pushed his way through the crowd, heading right for the stairs.

The catwalk was as crowded as the dance floor, only without people moving. He had to push between bodies and endure more than a few groping hands, but he ignored everything except the woman who’d all but thrown herself at Bond.

She’d turned her back to the railing, leaning back just enough that Bond had a perfect view of her plunging neckline. Her hands clenched the railing, and one long, shiny black fingernail flicked against the D-ring on Bond’s right cuff. Q couldn’t hear whatever Bond was saying, but his expression was one of icy warning that she was entirely failing to heed.

Finally, Q pushed past the last two people in his way to stand beside Bond. The woman in black threw a dismissive glance Q’s way before turning the full force of her attention back to Bond. “You were abandoned,” she said, nail clinking against the D-ring. “If you were mine, I’d never let you off my leash.”

“He’ll never be yours,” Q said, reaching across Bond’s body to take hold of the cuff. Possessively, he pulled Bond’s wrist out of her reach. “I don’t need a leash to keep him at my side. He chose to give himself to me, and I have no intention of sharing.”

Then he turned to Bond, but before he could speak, the woman continued her conversation with Bond as though Q weren’t even present: “You can do better than this boy. He probably doesn’t even own a proper whip.”

Irritated, Q turned back to her, snapping, “Single-minded pursuit of someone who’s already taken is an unhealthy sign of desperation, especially for someone of your age. I suggest you find someone you can handle.”

“How would you know what he wants?” she demanded. “You haven’t let him get a single word in.”

“James,” Q said, turning to look at him. “Do you want to go with her?”

“No, sir,” Bond said unhesitatingly.

Q turned back to her before the last word completely registered. After a moment’s startled pause, he told her, “I believe that proves I know _exactly_ what he wants, unlike you. Leave. _Now_.”

She finally looked at Q again, her expression disdainful. Then she looked at Bond, sniffed, and said, “When you’re ready for a real partner, look me up,” before she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Q stared after her, fighting the impulse to mark Bond’s skin with sharp bites. Inside, Bond’s ‘sir’ echoed in his memory, slowly easing the possessiveness that threatened to overwhelm him.

Bond’s hand twitched. Q looked down to see he’d dug his nails into Bond’s wrist. He released Bond quickly and took a deep breath. His heart was still pounding, a drumbeat urging him to drag Bond out of the nightclub, away from everyone who’d challenge Q’s claim.

He turned to lean against the railing, grasping it tightly. “I’m sorry you had to deal with her.”

Bond covered Q’s hand with his own. “I didn’t think you’d want me to drop her onto the dance floor. I _was_ tempted,” he admitted.

“That would have made the evening memorable, though in a very awkward way.” Q turned to put his arm around Bond’s waist, trying to quash the overwhelming urge to get Bond somewhere private immediately. “You didn’t have to call me ‘sir’,” he added more quietly.

Bond shrugged, leaning against Q. “I wanted to. It suits you.”

The bands of tension around his chest eased. He turned to kiss Bond’s neck, wishing he’d found the courage to bring up the collar earlier.  He remembered how vehemently Bond had protested calling Q ‘sir’, and he smiled against Bond’s throat, asking, “Despite my haircut?”

Bond’s hands dropped, skimming down Q’s back to rest on his arse. “With you dressed like this? I can overlook the haircut,” he teased. “Are we waiting for your friend or can we leave now?”

Q leaned back to look into Bond’s eyes. “I at least want to introduce you. Do you mind?”

“No, sir,” he said, and laughed softly when Q couldn’t hide his grin. “You _do_ like that, don’t you?”

“Not so much that you can use it any time you want to get your own way.”

“Only when I mean it, then,” Bond agreed, leaning close to press a kiss to Q’s lips before he softly added, “sir.”

 

~~~

 

Q let Bond precede him into the flat only because Bond was overprotective and security-conscious, and it had nothing to do with the way Bond stripped off his coat, giving Q a perfect view of his powerfully muscled back and the tight, hard curves of his arse. Nothing at all.

After Bond took a quick look around the foyer and living room, he hung the coat in the cupboard. Then he turned back to face Q, lips quirking up into a smug little smile when Q was too late in wrenching his eyes up to Bond’s face.

Abruptly crowding close, Bond reached one arm past Q and engaged the deadbolt. Q let his gaze trace over Bond’s arm to the cuff, stark and black and new. The sight of the lock dangling from the buckle turned the slow burn in his gut to a sudden, hot flare.

“I have to be insane, bringing you out like this,” he said quietly. He turned, fully intending to meet Bond’s eyes, only to get distracted by his chest. “You’re too bloody gorgeous.”

Bond leaned even closer, pressing a slow, soft kiss to Q’s lips, followed by the drag of his tongue. “Maybe I should wear these cuffs all weekend,” he said in a growling tone that sent heat spiralling up Q’s spine.

“You absolutely should,” Q said somewhat breathlessly. “And if you recall, I also bought ankle cuffs...”

The kiss moved from Q’s lips to his jaw. “Is that what you want, sir?” Bond asked.

Q knew he should take back control, but Bond’s brand of playful sensuality completely disarmed him. Still, he did manage to inject some authority into his tone as he said, “Yes.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” The locks rattled as his hands went to Q’s shoulders. “Bedroom? Or would you rather have me somewhere else?” he asked, opening the lapels of the long coat. His eyes dropped from Q’s face to his body, pupils dilating more as he took in the tight latex, shifting and reflecting the foyer’s soft light with every breath.

Bond’s charisma was overwhelming. Q needed to distance himself, to find that steady core of control, or he’d end up being the one begging Bond to fuck him wherever and however he wanted. And while the idea wasn’t without its appeal, he preferred to hold it in reserve for another night.

“Don’t be impatient,” he said calmly, stepping away from the door so Bond could help him out of the long coat. “I’m going to start tea. Did you want some?”

“Tea?” Bond asked disbelievingly.

Q hid his smirk. “I’ll take that as a no. But if you change your mind, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

He intentionally walked slowly, giving Bond every opportunity to stare. When he turned into the kitchen, he let his smirk become a full-fledged grin. The PVC and latex were hot and uncomfortable, but so very much worth the effort just for Bond’s response.

Of course, Bond couldn’t be bothered to own a normal electric kettle. His was a monstrosity of stainless steel with a temperature readout, clock, and electric controls in the handle. Q rinsed out the kettle, then filled it from the reverse osmosis faucet. He set it to boil and went to take down two mugs, thinking Bond might change his mind.

“You forgot this.”

“What?” Q turned to look at Bond, who was standing in the doorway.

Holding the collar.

Q went cold inside, remembering only then that he’d shoved the collar into his coat pocket hours ago. He watched Bond pull the length between his fingers; there was no mistaking it for an ankle cuff or belt.

Because this was Bond — this was so _important_ — he nearly fell back into his old habits and rushed into an explanation. Instead, he took a breath and allowed his rational mind to catch up with his emotional response. Bond didn’t seem angry or upset; he looked up from the collar, meeting Q’s eyes, expression absolutely neutral.

“I bought it...” he began, before he faltered. He reached out and turned off the kettle. Then he walked to Bond and gently took the collar from him. “We should discuss this. Living room?”

Bond’s brows twitched up, but he nodded and went across the hall. Q followed, rubbing the leather between his fingertips. His heart was beating quickly, but now that he’d passed the initial shock of Bond finding the collar, he wasn’t as nervous as he might have been.

Bond stopped in the middle of the living room and looked questioningly back at him as though asking where to sit. Q was tempted to take the armchair and let Bond sit at his feet, but they needed to have this discussion as equals. Q went to the sofa, beckoning for Bond to join him.

A flicker of worry showed in Bond’s eyes, quickly hidden. They sat together, and Q turned as best he could, cursing the PVC trousers that clung to the leather sofa, keeping him from quietly turning to face Bond.

“I bought this for you,” he said, stretching the leather collar between his hands. “I’m certain you’ve heard a lot of conflicting stories of what it symbolises. This is for us, though — not anyone else. It doesn’t need to mean anything you don’t want it to mean.”

Bond let out a slow exhale. He lifted a hand to touch Q’s bare arm, just above his wrist. Q looked up from the collar to meet Bond’s eyes.

The worry was gone. Bond took the collar back out of Q’s fingers. He traced his thumb over the steel ring set opposite the buckle. Q’s throat closed as he realised Bond had to be imagining the purpose of that ring — a fixed point for a leash or other binding. It was one thing to be playfully tied to a bed; a leash was a far more powerful statement, one that could be primal or humiliating, depending on the context.

Before Q could speak, to elaborate on his own feelings, Bond asked into the silence, “And what if I want it to mean something?”

Q’s heart skipped. He found his voice and met Bond’s eyes, asking wonderingly, “Do you?”

Bond looked down at the collar again. Q could almost see his mind racing, but he had no idea what Bond was actually thinking.

Bond stood and stepped away from the couch. He turned, looking from the collar to Q as he knelt down at Q’s feet. He extended the collar to Q, who took it automatically. Bond started to settle his hands on Q’s legs, before he caught himself. He looked down and drew his hands back, resting them on his own thighs as if realising that Q hadn’t given him permission to touch.

Q turned the collar to put the buckle in his right hand. He stared into Bond’s eyes, hardly daring to believe this was really happening, and saw no hesitation — only desire and affection and trust.

Slowly, reverently, Q opened the collar. When it touched Bond’s throat, Bond inhaled, though he didn’t tense. He just bowed his head enough that Q could smooth the collar over his nape, feeding the tongue through the buckle.

The leatherworker had left three holes, closely spaced. Q chose the centre hole, knowing it would be the best fit. He tucked the tongue away and sat back, running his fingers over the edges of the leather, feeling the skin below.

He wanted to ask if it was all right, but he kept silent, trusting that Bond would tell him if it wasn’t. Instead, he sat back again, and Bond moved with him, shifting to kneel against his legs.

“I would have worn this to the club,” Bond said. “You didn’t have to leave it in your coat.”

“I didn’t know that, did I?” Q pointed out with a soft laugh. He reached down, and Bond took his hand, turning to look up at him. “You’re not meant to be on a leash, James.”

“You don’t need a leash to keep me. I’ll always come back to you.”

Q leaned in close and encouraged Bond to kneel up. “A bird of prey,” he said, touching the collar with his free hand. “I’ve always thought that about you.”

As a rule, Bond never let down his defences. He was always on edge, always holding something back, guarding himself. Q understood; he’d never asked for more than Bond was willing to give. Now, though, as he looked into Bond’s eyes, he saw no hint of that wary tension, that inability to trust that Bond had so painfully learned in the treacherous career of espionage.

Quietly, without reservation, James said, “You needn’t worry about clipping my wings, sir. I want this as much as you do.”

The last bit of hesitation faded under the sincerity of his words. Q touched the ring on the collar, and though he didn’t pull, James obediently leaned up into Q’s kiss.


	14. Notes on Costuming

Infinite thanks to Jennybel75, who is my lead costume designer, fashion consultant, and all-around expert. (Trust me, if you saw my wardrobe, you'd see why I need expert help.)

**Please note: Most of these links no longer work. I'm leaving them active just in case someone can find them cached somewhere. Sorry!**

Ch2:  
Shirt: [http://i.ebayimg.com/00/s/NTAwWDUwMA==/z/F0oAAMXQxVZRCg9T/$T2eC16N,!)0E9s37E2uLBRCg9Stgcw~~60_35.JPG](http://i.ebayimg.com/00/s/NTAwWDUwMA==/z/F0oAAMXQxVZRCg9T/%24T2eC16N,!\)0E9s37E2uLBRCg9Stgcw~~60_35.JPG)[  
](http://cdn100.iofferphoto.com/img3/item/518/334/151/chic-korea-mens-classic-concise-slim-fit-short-shirt-0af3.jpg)Leather: <http://www.sakujapan.com/Asia_Fashion__mens_Slim_fit__Faux_Leather_pants/p502862_8292261.aspx>[  
](http://www.sakujapan.com/Asia_Fashion__mens_Slim_fit__Faux_Leather_pants/p502862_8292261.aspx)Waistcoat: <http://www.galleryserpentine.com/mens-wear/vests-and-waist-coats/mr-darcy-waistcoat.html>[  
](http://www.galleryserpentine.com.au/ProductDetails.aspx?productID=665)Coat: <http://www.galleryserpentine.com/mens-wear/jackets-and-coats/matrix-priest-coat.html>[  
](http://www.galleryserpentine.com.au/ProductDetails.aspx?productID=100)Boots: <http://www.pennangalan.co.uk/boots/FW437.php>[  
](http://www.pennangalan.co.uk/boots/FW437.php)Skirt: <http://www.galleryserpentine.com/womens-wear/skirts/the-ophelia-skirt.html>[  
](http://www.galleryserpentine.com.au/ProductDetails.aspx?productID=388)Lace top: <http://www.redstripeclothing.com/img/content/1939/t_vivianne-lace.jpg>[  
](http://www.redstripeclothing.com/womens_clothing/tops_and_blouses/vivianne_top/)Corset: <http://www.kaoscorsets.co.uk/SteelBonedCorsets/blackleathercorset.html>[  
](http://www.kaoscorsets.co.uk/SteelBonedCorsets/blackleathercorset.html)Boots: [http://www.pleaserusa.com/ProductDetail.asp?div=1_PLEASER&dpt=A_BOOT&ctg=20_KNEE&STYLE_CD=ELECTRA-2037&PROD_CD=ELE2037%2FB](http://www.pleaserusa.com/ProductDetail.asp?div=1_PLEASER&dpt=A_BOOT&ctg=20_KNEE&STYLE_CD=ELECTRA-2037&PROD_CD=ELE2037%2FB)

Ch 5:  
PVC: <http://www.extremerestraints.com/fetish-pants_29/jean-cut-latex-pants_3167.html>  
Coat: <http://www.galleryserpentine.com/mens-wear/jackets-and-coats/matrix-priest-coat.html>  
Boots: <http://www.pennangalan.co.uk/boots/FW198.php>  
Shirt: <http://cdn100.iofferphoto.com/img3/item/518/334/151/chic-korea-mens-classic-concise-slim-fit-short-shirt-0af3.jpg>

Chs 12 & 13:  
PVC: <http://www.extremerestraints.com/fetish-pants_29/jean-cut-latex-pants_3167.html>[  
](http://www.extremerestraints.com/fetish-pants_29/vinyl-jeans_670.html)Latex top: <http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l3c879D2fF1qbpx5ko1_400.jpg>[  
](http://store02.prostores.com/servlet/ego-assassin/the-127/FLYNN/Detail)Boots: <http://www.pennangalan.co.uk/boots/FW108.php>

Ch13:  
Pushy domme: <https://s3.amazonaws.com/assets.svpply.com/large/2408422.jpg?1397557298>[  
](http://www.pinupgirlclothing.com/isabelle-black-satin.html)Shelly: <http://www.fairygothmother.co.uk/hb-freddy.htm>[  
](http://www.fairygothmother.co.uk/hb-freddy.htm)Gail: <http://www.galleryserpentine.com/womens-wear/skirts/mini-goth-commando-skirt.html>

 

 

 

Bond's clothes:  
His Casino Royale and Quantum suits are mostly Brioni: <http://www.brioni.com/Site.aspx?lang=EN>  
and his Skyfall suits are mostly Tom Ford: <http://www.tomford.com/#/en/menswear>

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bal-Chatri Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/698412) by [TheGroupofOne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGroupofOne/pseuds/TheGroupofOne)




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